‘Morning,’ Lauren says. ‘Thought I’d give you a surprise and come running with you this morning.’
That certainly is a surprise.
‘Great.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ my sister snaps. ‘I hauled myself out of my pit at the crack of dawn to get here to support you in your quest. The least you could do is look bloody grateful.’
I laugh. ‘I am grateful. Of course I am.’ Jumping out of the car, I say, ‘We might be thwarted in our fundraising attempts today. Greg’s got a cold.’
‘Heaven help us,’ she says.
‘I know.’ I shrug. ‘We’ll have to play it by ear.’
‘If he’s still hanging around we’ll have to go shopping and do lunch. Hmm,’ she adds, ‘that doesn’t sound too bad.’
‘But it won’t get me to Peru,’ I mutter.
Then Blake Chadwick’s car growls into the car park and slots into a space right next to me.
‘Oh,’ my sister says, ‘isn’t that your boss? I remember his car from last week.’
Now I know that I’m looking sheepish. ‘Oh, yes,’ I say too brightly. ‘So it is.’
Lauren frowns. ‘Did you expect him to be here?’
‘Er, I, er . . .’ I may just have given Lauren the impression that I am struggling manfully with my punishing training schedule alone.
BC is out of the car and next to us. ‘Morning, ladies,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you can make it this morning, Annie. I was lonely last week.’ He puts his arm round my shoulders and hugs me.
‘Er, I, er . . .’ My cheeks go pink even before I’ve started to run. I wonder how much he missed me. As much as I missed him?
‘Glad you could join us,’ BC says to my sister. ‘Lauren, isn’t it?’
Lauren nods grimly.
‘Let’s do it then.’ Blake sets off at a gentle jog. Lauren and I fall into step behind him.
My sister gives me the evil eye. ‘I will be talking to you about this situation when we’ve finished, Annie Ashton.’ It’s a half-whisper, half-hiss.
Knowing my sister, it won’t be a talk, it will be an interrogation. She may even inflict on me one of the Chinese burns she was so good at as a child – and I’m not sure that she’ll like the answers I’ll give her.
Chapter 56
We finish our run, towel down and say goodbye to Blake Chadwick. Lauren and I stand and watch his Lotus roar out of the car park.
‘So?’ she says immediately.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Why didn’t you mention that he was going to Peru before we washed his car last week? Why didn’t you tell me that you were meeting him here every Saturday morning to run together?’
‘And Wednesday evening,’ I add. ‘But then we’re joined by about another ten people from the office.’
‘You tell me everything and yet you’ve never mentioned this?’
I sigh guiltily. My sister is right. I’ve kept my crush on Blake Chadwick all to myself. It’s been my little secret. And I’ve loved having it.
‘Are you in love with him?’ Lauren wants to know.
I start to laugh at that. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘You go all goo-goo ga-ga when he looks at you.’
That stops me laughing. ‘Perhaps it’s because no one else looks at me in that way any more.’ Then I burst into tears.
‘Oh, Annie.’ Lauren puts her arm round me and steers me to the nearest bench. We sit on it and stare out at the ducks on the lake while I have a cry.
‘Are you sleeping with him?’
A teary laugh. ‘Of course I’m not.’
‘But you want to.’
‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘He’s fit, he’s fabulous and he’s an outrageous flirt.’
‘He certainly seems to like you.’
Lauren pulls a tissue out of the little bag at her waist and hands it to me. I dutifully blow my nose.
‘I think he does,’ I admit. ‘He’s asked me to go to one of the work’s events next week.’
‘Are you going?’
I nod. ‘He said would you like to come along too.’
‘You know,’ Lauren says, ‘you need to tread very carefully here. He is a young, single guy.’
‘Not that much younger than me,’ I point out. ‘He’s about thirty-four.’
Lauren puffs out an irritated breath. ‘I can’t believe that this is you talking. What if you go to this dinner or event or whatever it is – what then? What if he wants to take it further? Do you really know what you’re starting out on?’
I don’t remind her that she has provided a very good role model for adulterous affairs over the last few years.
‘What if Greg was to find out?’ my sister goes on, warming to her theme. ‘You’re willing to risk breaking up your family for someone like that?’
‘This is the pot calling the kettle black.’ I fold my arms defensively. ‘Aren’t you currently in the process of trying to break up someone else’s family?’
Lauren’s face darkens. ‘That’s different.’
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘Jude’s children are only young so it will be completely devastating for them, whereas mine are about to fly the nest anyway. It will be easier for them to adjust to their parents living apart.’
‘So you’ve really thought about this?’ she says, mouth falling open.
‘Yes, I have.’ Whereas I think my sister has not.
‘Georgia doesn’t love Jude like Greg loves you.’
‘Open your eyes, Lauren. If . . . if . . . anything happens with Blake, then I’ll be walking into this knowing exactly what the risks are. Just as you did.’
My sister puts her head in her hands. ‘Don’t do it,’ she says. ‘I beg you.’
I say nothing.
‘I didn’t think it would hurt like this, Annie,’ she confesses, tears in her eyes. ‘When I first got together with Jude, I thought I could handle it. But I can’t. I thought I wanted him at any cost, but this is ripping me apart.’
‘And if you win . . . if you get what you want, then it will rip his family apart.’
The tears roll down her cheeks at that.
‘There are no winners in this, Lauren,’ I go on inexorably. ‘If Jude comes to you then he’ll leave a horrible gaping mess in his wake. One that you’ll spend years trying to patch up.’
She wails now as if in agony and rocks herself back and forth on the bench. ‘What am I going to do, Annie?’
‘Walk away,’ I say. ‘Come to your senses and walk away.’
My sister looks at me, eyes over-bright and red rimmed. ‘And what about you, Annie? Will you do the same?’
Chapter 57
We go to the Co-op on the way home and buy chocolate croissants to cheer ourselves up and to undo all the good we’ve just done in one fell swoop. We don’t mention Jude Taylor or Blake Chadwick again.
When we get back to my house there’s no one else home. On the work surface is a Post-it Note from Greg, saying, Gone fishing. Back at 5. No endearments, no kisses, no nothing.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘We can put Plan A into action.’
So we eat our croissants quickly and down a swift cup of coffee with them while we are gearing up in our bunny costumes. Today, I don’t have quite so much enthusiasm for this.
‘Think of Peru,’ my sister says when she sees my long face. Then she hugs me. ‘I didn’t mean to nag you. You’ve got to do as you want to do. It’s your life.’
Yes, it is, I think miserably as I trudge downstairs with our saucy advertisement board. Lauren goes to the garage to get the buckets. During the week she’s bought two big pink sponges for us to use. For some reason the sight of them makes me smile.
‘Come on,’ she says encouragingly. ‘Let’s wiggle our bunny tails for the good residents of Milton Keynes.’
So I put the sign out and stand by the gate waving cheekily at the cars that pass. Within minutes, our first customer has stopped.
‘It’s always th
e men in cars on their own who take up our services,’ Lauren mutters as we hose down the Renault in a suggestive manner. ‘I should have got my friend Zak to dress up as a fireman to attract the women drivers.’
And Blake, I think. But then I’m not entirely sure that I could have coped with seeing BC in a fireman’s uniform. My hormones might well have self-destructed.
Like last weekend, we have a steady stream of clients. We take turns to grab a sandwich at lunchtime and then the next time I look at my watch it’s nearly three o’clock. We’ve already done fifteen cars and have banked nearly £150 pounds. That takes me just over halfway on my target and that lifts my heart. Another hour or so and then we’ll need to clear up before Greg comes home.
Then I glance down the road at our queue. Three more cars. Perhaps we should call it a day after that. As I turn back to my current customer – a Mini that just needs a wash and brush-up – a car screeches up to the front of the queue. It’s a vehicle that I know only too well.
A moment later, the driver’s door slams and the driver – who I also know only too well – stamps up the drive. His eyes pop out of his head when he sees my Bunny Girl outfit.
‘What’s all this about?’ my husband says. His face is red and he is frothing at the mouth.
‘It’s about raising money for my trip to Peru,’ I say calmly. ‘And we’re doing very well.’
‘It stops now,’ Greg says, and he kicks over our sign declaring, LET THE BUNNY TWINS RUB YOUR BUMPERS!
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so cross.
‘I knew you’d be unreasonable,’ I say quietly. ‘That’s why I’m doing it while you’re out.’
Our waiting customers are out of their cars now and are watching with interest our developing domestic crisis.
‘Except I’m not out now,’ my husband points out. ‘I’m home. I came home because I’m feeling dreadful with this bloody cold. And I come home to this. This. I had no idea what was going on when I saw the queue outside our house. What will the neighbours think?’
I put my hands on my hips and shout back, ‘Some of them obviously like it. They’ve already had their cars washed!’
With that, a dark cloud comes over him and he grabs hold of my bunny ears, snatches them from my head and throws them to the ground. Then he jumps on them. Three times.
Now he has gone too far.
‘I don’t know who you are any more,’ Greg spits. ‘You’re not the wife I’ve been married to for the last twenty years.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I spit back. ‘I’m glad you’ve realised that.’
Greg and I square up to each other, me armed with my pink sponge covered in suds, Greg armed with the moral high ground. My sister comes over.
‘Greg,’ she hisses, ‘calm down. You’re showing us up.’
‘Showing you up?’ My husband’s eyes bulge alarmingly. I should imagine that his blood pressure is currently off the known scale. ‘You’re the ones in Bunny Girl get-ups! You’re middle-aged women. What do you think you look like?’
A posse of men with folded arms have gathered at our gates. ‘We think they look great,’ one ventures.
My husband wheels on him. ‘Who asked you?’
‘It’s for charity,’ our brave champion continues recklessly. ‘Give them a break.’
Greg’s response is to stomp across the drive and kick over our buckets.
Lauren and I stand there impotently. There is a disapproving grumbling from our customers. Mutters of, ‘Killjoy’, and, ‘Spoilsport’, are heard.
I sigh deeply. ‘I think that our car-wash is closed for this evening,’ I tell them sadly.
Greg is sulking at the side of the house, hands wedged in his pockets.
I take a deep breath. ‘It will, however, recommence at ten o’clock in the morning.’
A cheer goes up. Placated, our customers go back to their cars.
‘See you tomorrow, darling,’ one of them shouts.
‘That was an outright declaration of war,’ Lauren whispers to me. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
My chin takes on a determined little jut. ‘Oh, yes.’ Picking up my bunny ears, I straighten them out and plonk them back on my head. I will not let anyone, not even my husband, crush my dream.
And I wonder what the chances are of me persuading Greg to don a fireman’s uniform and help us out tomorrow. None, I think the answer is to that.
Chapter 58
I take off my bunny outfit. For dinner, I open a tin of Heinz tomato soup. Greg has a Lemsip. We sit glued to the television avoiding eye-contact with each other. My husband stomps up to bed at nine o’clock. Half an hour later, I follow him.
We lie on our backs staring at the ceiling in silence.
Chapter 59
The next morning, Greg is up and gone before I’m awake. His fishing equipment is missing too, but then I could have hazarded an educated guess as to where he’d be.
My sister, very sensibly, made herself scarce last night. She hightailed it back to London when she could sense that trouble was brewing.
I sit at the kitchen table in my dressing-gown, brooding. When I decided to embark on this trip, this adventure, I had no idea that my husband would be so dead set against it. At best, I imagined that he’d want to come with me. At worst, that he’d give me as much support as he could without actually accompanying me. Shows how little I know him after all these years of marriage – and that makes me feel incredibly sad.
My mobile phone is lying on the kitchen table and I stare wistfully at it. We haven’t had a disagreement like this in all our years together. We might never have reached the passionate heights of Burton and Taylor, but we’ve rubbed along together well enough. I could call him. Make peace. I can picture exactly where he’ll be sitting on his favourite spot on the canal. Or I could text him.
In the end I do nothing.
Neither of the kids are home. Ellen is probably staying with her boyfriend as she does most nights. As for my son, who knows where he is? He seems to pick up a different girl every weekend but, thankfully, he doesn’t often bring them home. At least he picks up girls who have their own place or more accommodating parents. What is my purpose here any more, I wonder, home all alone on a Sunday?
Making some tea and toast for breakfast, I take my time over it. I should be donning the bunny outfit and getting out there with my bucket to whip the men of Milton Keynes into a veritable frenzy of giving with my pink sponge, my winning smile and my cute little pom-pom. But I lack the enthusiasm today. I’m taking no pleasure in my victory, and without Lauren here to chivvy me on, be my partner in crime, I’m finding the prospect of a day’s car washing in little more than my underwear quite daunting.
I could call my sister and ask her to come back to help me again, but my heart just isn’t in it. Yesterday’s post is still waiting, unopened, on the table. All we ever get is bills, bills, bills – so no one is ever in a rush to check out the contents. As I eat my toast, I slit open the first envelope. Gas bill. Ghastly. Then the second. Credit-card bill. Deplorable. The third is clearly from the bank, and I hope that we’re not overdrawn yet again. But no – inside the envelope is a cheque. I get a bit excited for a minute, thinking that I might have come into some money, but when I look closely it’s Chelsea’s cheque for £100. The letter with it tells me that the cheque has been refused due to ‘insufficient funds’. Chelsea’s cheque has bounced. It can’t have! The bank must have cocked something up. It wouldn’t be the first time. God, that means I’m going to have to give it back to her. How embarrassing. Why is none of this straightforward?
Dragging my feet, I go back upstairs and get the Bunny Girl outfit out of the back of my wardrobe. I throw my middle-aged mum’s towelling dressing-gown on the bed and pull on the fishnet tights, then the snug corset with the ridiculous white fluffy tail. Slipping on my stilettos, I take a long, hard look at myself in the full-length mirror.
I look stupid. Utterly stupid. Greg’s right. Why did I think tha
t it was a good idea to humiliate myself in this way? Is this trip really worth putting my marriage under this terrible strain? What am I trying to prove?
Pulling the travel guide out of my handbag by the bed, I browse its pages once more, stroking the glossy coloured pictures of locations too achingly exotic to contemplate – Isla Ballestas, Puerta Inca, Chala, Cahuachi, Puno, Moquegua. Places that are so vivid, so vast, so far removed from my ordinary life that I can barely imagine myself in that landscape. My eyes prickle with hot tears and the towering mountains, lush valleys and sparkling rivers blur until I can’t see them any more. Will I ever get there? Should I even be trying? Should I not just be happy with my lot and let this silly notion of adventure and independence go, for the sake of my family?
Sitting by myself on the bed, I cry, miserable, self-pitying tears, letting them roll down my face and wet the bare skin of my chest.
‘What shall I do?’ I howl out loud to no one. ‘What shall I do?’
But no one answers me and I don’t know what to say to myself.
Chapter 60
Greg had long nurtured a love affair with tench. There was nothing better in life than sitting by the canal watching the dawn break, the rays of sunshine peeping tentatively through the trees and over the hedges, warming the waters of the canal, stirring the slothlike nature of the fish in to slow, languorous movement.
They had a lovely feel to them too, tench. Leathery, firm skin, fat, round and smooth with a shiny, iridescent green body that glistened in the sun. Their crimson eyes kept a soulful watch on you as you disgorged the hook from their mouths and released them to swim another day. Fine-looking fish, a tench.
He looked at the specimen in his hands with pride. They never struggled either, tench. They were the most placid of all the homely well-loved fish. When all else in life was falling apart, you could depend on the relaxing nature of the tench.
‘If I was Prime Minister,’ Ray said as he ferreted deep in his tackle box, looking for his box of weights or his floats, ‘I’d send all these Polish blokes home. They’re taking all our jobs. Send ’em back – that’s what I’d do.’