He couldn’t believe it. His Annie. How could she do this? The old Annie would never have dreamed of cheating on him. But this newfangled, unrecognisable Annie? This strange, unfamiliar woman seemed to be capable of anything.
Chapter 79
Lauren didn’t go to work. She stayed in bed with the curtains closed. The phone had rung constantly and she’d put a pillow over her head to block out the sound, but still it continued. Finally, she’d hauled herself out of her pit and had pulled the plug out of the wall. Then her mobile had started, so she’d switched that off too.
It was Jude. She knew it was. His ring had a certain tone to it. And this tone was cross. And getting crosser.
She didn’t want to speak to Jude. She didn’t want to speak to anyone. Not even Annie, if she was truthful, and yet she knew she should phone her sister and see how she was now.
Her head throbbed and she’d spent an hour puking up a strange lemon fluid which tasted of rancid pineapple and which she assumed was regurgitated Totally Tropical. Then she ate a piece of dry toast and threw that up too.
Perhaps she’d never eat again. Perhaps she’d just lie here and let herself wither away to nothing. Who would care? Who would notice?
So. It was over. Just like that. All those years gone to waste.
She should feel good that she had at least called a stop to all that subterfuge, deceit and downright lying – but she didn’t. There was just a big hollow bit inside her where feeling was meant to be.
Lauren couldn’t go back to work at Happening Today. She could never face Jude again. Never be in the same room as him again. That was the end of her career as she knew it.
It wasn’t one final lie that had tipped her over the edge. It was seeing Jude with his family, his children. She’d always managed to avoid that in the past. If he’d hosted a company barbecue at his home where children were invited, Lauren had always managed to find some excuse to dip out of it. She’d never had to confront the fact that they were actually all very happy together – that both his wife and his kids were blissfully unaware of their father’s duplicity, or her part in it.
They looked like great kids – the sort of kids that she would like to have herself one day. That made her cry again. With pity for herself and with sorrow for the damage she’d caused.
What would she do now? Another job would be the first thing. Then another place to live. This mortgage would, she was sure, be too expensive for her to pay off on her salary alone. Perhaps she could move further north, out of the Smoke and nearer to Annie. Maybe she could get a house in the same road as her sister, as they’d always planned as kids. Say goodbye to London completely. That way, she’d be sure never to bump into Jude ever again.
Even the thought made her stomach roil. How on earth would she begin to fill that gap in her life?
It was over. It had to be. But that didn’t stop it hurting. It didn’t stop her loving him.
Chapter 80
As a supposed compromise, I continue with the car wash in order to raise my funds but, as I’m on crutches, I don’t do it in the bunny outfit. However, Greg continues to look at me with disdain – as if I’m still in the Bunny Girl get-up.
To be honest, it’s not a great success. Hopping around is uncomfortable, and I should be resting my foot, not putting my weight on it. It takes me ages to do each car and there’s very little interest in my services now that, to put it bluntly, my tits aren’t hanging out. What does that say about the human race? Or the male of the species in particular?
After a miserable, long day and a measly fifty pounds, I call it quits. It would have been so easy to have carried on as I was. Another couple of weekends and I would have had my sponsorship money. As it is, I’m going to have to do it the hard way. But I haven’t quite worked out what that is yet.
I can’t rope my sister in because she’s in no fit state to do anything. I’m so worried about her. She’s not eating and she’s drinking way too much – although not Totally Tropical, which I doubt either of us will ever touch again.
Despite the Ashton twins embarrassing themselves royally at the disastrous Party Party boat event, I managed to keep my job. Perhaps if I hadn’t so roundly injured myself, it might have been a different story, but apparently, there were some Health and Safety issues surrounding dressing people as fruit without adequate training, and it was decided not to sack me in case I sued the pants off them. It’s the first time in my life that I have felt grateful for the ridiculous rules of the EU.
So, my ‘embarrassing incident’, as it will be referred to, has been swept under the carpet – at work, if not at home – though I’m sure it will go down in the annals of company folklore once the pain has subsided. At Chez Ashton, however, the matter will clearly not be forgotten quite so quickly.
I can’t remember a time in our entire marriage when Greg and I have been at such odds and it’s depressing me immensely. He’s out fishing even more than normal, and when he is at home he tries to avoid me completely. Which in a house our size, is no mean feat. Most of the time he’s hiding away in the garage doing things to his fishing equipment that I just don’t understand, and am not interested in enough to bother to learn.
I’m hopping about, tidying away my bucket and my pink sponge – even that looks sorry for itself – when my big sister’s posh car pulls up outside our house.
It’s weeks since I’ve seen Chelsea and I feel bad because I should have made more effort now that she’s at home in Woburn. To be honest, I’ve been avoiding her because of the Bounced Cheque Situation. How am I going to raise it with her? I know Chelsea will be mortified. My sister slips out of her car and comes towards me, arms outstretched. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she cries.
‘I forgot,’ I apologise. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind.’
‘I had to find out from Stephanie,’ she tuts.
I have no idea who Stephanie is and, obviously, that registers on my face.
‘You know, Annie.’ Chelsea pulls a face. ‘Mrs Drew-Phillips’ daughter.’
Still none the wiser. I do not know and have never known a Mrs Drew-Phillips. And definitely not sure how Stephanie, Mrs Drew-Phillips’ daughter, got to hear about my misfortune. ‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘That Stephanie.’
If my sister has also been told by Stephanie the way I came about my injury, then she doesn’t let on. I’m hoping to take that particular secret with me to the grave.
Chelsea lifts my bucket and puts it away for me. Her nose gives an involuntary crinkle when she sees the state of our garage. Chelsea’s garage has a painted floor and white walls lined with useful storage cupboards. Ours doesn’t.
‘Don’t you two ever think of involving me in your lives?’ she asks suddenly, in a tone that I’ve never heard her use before. ‘Why didn’t Lauren phone me?’
‘Lauren has troubles of her own,’ I admit, even though Lauren would rather do something unpleasant to her face with a blunt knife than let Chelsea know that things aren’t perfect in her world.
Chelsea waits for further explanation. Which, after a short tussle with my conscience, I give. ‘She’s finally broken up with Jude.’
‘About time,’ is my sister’s verdict. I agree. But I also know that not everything in this life is black and white. Nor does it fit into little boxes as Chelsea likes it to.
I hop into the kitchen and Chelsea follows.
‘Sit, sit,’ she instructs and I do, while she swans serenely about my untidy kitchen making tea.
‘No Greg?’
‘He’s fishing.’ And while I’m in confessional mood, I add, ‘Things aren’t all that great here either.’
‘Oh, Annie. You’ve always had such a good marriage.’
A good marriage, I’ll agree. But not a perfect marriage like Chelsea’s, with a wealthy husband who knows the meaning of the word ‘romance’, and a big house and two model children.
‘He doesn’t want me to do this charity trek to the Inca Trail.’
‘I’m surprised
that you’re still thinking of doing it.’ She casts a pointed glance at my gammy foot.
‘I can’t just give up my dream at the first hurdle,’ I protest. Even though I think there might actually have been more than one hurdle, if I were to count them. ‘My foot should be better by then.’ I decide to go for broke. ‘My main problem is money. Lauren and I had been doing car washing.’ I opt to miss out the Bunny Girl aspect. There are several things that Chelsea is best not knowing. Though it’s possible that Stephanie whatever-her-name-was could rat on me again. ‘That’s obviously out of the question now.’
‘Obviously,’ Chelsea agrees.
‘There’s one other thing.’ My cheeks redden. ‘That cheque you gave me – for a hundred pounds.’ I sort of grind to a halt.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it bounced.’
Chelsea looks taken aback, as I knew she would. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought. Bloody banks.’
‘Indeed. I’ll give you another one.’ Chelsea’s cheeks have coloured up too, and she avoids my eyes by delving into the depths of her handbag. I could bite out my own tongue for having raised it with her. She’ll be mortified.
‘Damn,’ she says. ‘No chequebook. Can I give it to you another time?’
‘Any time,’ I say. ‘I’m just really grateful for any donation.’
Then we sit awkwardly for a moment and I can’t help myself as I ask, ‘Everything is okay, Chelsea?’
‘Of course,’ she assures me briskly. ‘Some glitch at the bank.’
‘I didn’t just mean that. You never told us that you were coming home. It’s all a bit unexpected. Is everything else all right?’
‘Fine. You shouldn’t be worrying about me. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
And with that reminder, my worries rush back. ‘I hate being tight for cash.’ I wish I had an enormous bank account that I could just dip into, but I don’t. ‘I’m not sure what else to do to raise the money.’
‘Have a trawl through your wardrobe,’ my sister advises as she hands me my tea. Cup, not mug, I note. I’m not even sure where I keep my cups. ‘Put some of your old designer gear on eBay.’
‘I don’t have any old designer gear, Chelsea. I don’t have any designer gear.’
‘Oh.’ My sister looks slightly confused by this concept.
‘Perhaps you’ve got some lurking that you could donate to a good cause.’ Despite the cheque bouncing, I know that Chelsea will give me £100 towards my quest, but as Lauren pointed out, it’s hardly generous for her. Chelsea would think absolutely nothing of spending £100 on a T-shirt.
‘I’ll have a root through my things,’ she says, ‘but surely you have stuff in the house that you could sell at a car boot? Things that you want to get rid of?’
My sister is eyeing the white china hen that I keep my eggs in with something approaching loathing while I am thinking, Is there much of a market for secondhand unwanted husbands?
‘Bake cakes,’ Chelsea continues, ‘put them in a pretty basket and sell them at work. There’s all kinds of inventive things you can do to raise money.’
I realise that I have possibly been colluding with the wrong sister. Chelsea could give Bree Hodge from Desperate Housewives a run for her money. We chat about nothing in particular and then Chelsea says, ‘Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. Anything at all.’
I want to say, ‘Write me a cheque for a grand rather than a hundred pounds and, this time, make it a pukka one.’ But I don’t. Instead, I say, ‘I’m fine, thanks. Nothing I need.’
My sister looks relieved. Perhaps, like Lauren, she’s better at reading my mind than I’d like her to be. ‘I have to go,’ she says, and stands up. ‘Things to do.’
Marvellous things, I have no doubt. As much as I love my sister, she does have a knack of raising my inadequacy quotient quite considerably.
But, as soon as she’s gone, Plan B will be put into action. I’ll be hauling myself into the loft to furtle out all manner of tat that is surplus to requirements and I’ll be getting out my cookbooks to see if I can remember how to bake.
Chapter 81
It had been three days. Three days without answering the phone. Three days without replying to text messages. Three days without food. Unless you counted neat vodka.
Lauren’s stomach burned with acid. She knew that today she would have to go out and buy food. Real food. Not alcohol-based sustenance. But facing the world seemed to be such a difficult prospect. Being here for the rest of her life with the curtains closed was a much better option.
She wasn’t sure that she’d showered or washed her hair, but she did know that she’d slept a lot, and when she hadn’t been sleeping, she’d watched a lot of mindless television in the dark. Countdown was a particular favourite – even though the new girl wasn’t a patch on old Vorders.
There had been a lot of banging on her front door, but she hadn’t responded. Jude might have been shouting through the door too, but with a pillow over her head and the duvet pulled up, she could almost block it out.
Annie also texted her constantly to make sure that she was all right – and Lauren assured her that she was. It was the good thing about texting. No one could tell if you were lying.
Lauren lay in her bed. She had to get up. This was bad – she knew that much. It was just such an effort.
There was more banging at the front door and she pulled the pillow round her ears, holding it tightly in place.
Jude had a key, but she’d put the security chain in place and he could do nothing but rattle impotently at the lock.
The next thing, she heard the door bang open and footsteps in the flat. Clearly the bang had been the demise of the security chain. Or perhaps it wasn’t Jude at all. Perhaps she was being burgled. Let them take everything, she thought. There’s nothing of value here.
A figure came into her bedroom, a shadow looming in the darkness. But it was a shadow she recognised.
Jude flicked on the light and she shielded her eyes against it.
‘Why have you not answered my calls?’ her ex-lover shouted. ‘Why are you being like this?’
Lauren abandoned her pillow and hauled herself upright. ‘I’m being like this because I’m upset.’ ‘Upset’ was a long way short of what she was.
Jude came and sat on the edge of her bed. ‘I wanted to sort everything out with you,’ he said more quietly. ‘I have been going insane.’
Me too, Lauren thought, but she said nothing.
‘I’ve rented a flat,’ Jude told her. ‘It’s a terrible place. I didn’t know where else to go. I tried calling you . . .’
Yes. He’d certainly done that.
‘I thought that I might come here.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Her ex-lover took her hand and held it tightly. His eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I don’t want it to be over between us,’ he said. ‘I’m sorting everything out, just as I said I would. We can be together.’
‘Stay with Georgia,’ Lauren urged. ‘Make it up to your wife – if you can. Make it up to the kids. They’re young, they need you. Start being a good husband and a good father.’
‘I love you, Lauren,’ he said.
‘And I love you too,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m letting you go.’
She worried that if he kept coming round, kept working his way back into her good books, kept protesting his love for her, then she would not have the strength to resist him. And, this time, Lauren so wanted to.
Before she could put this into words, Jude glanced at his watch. ‘I have to go. I’ve got an appointment with the bank.’
There was always somewhere else that her lover needed to be. She should remember that. Put that at the forefront of her mind and forget how wonderful he could be when he wanted to. Was it an appointment with the bank, Lauren thought, or was Georgia sitting waiting for him somewhere? She realised that as long as she was with Jude, she’d never
be entirely free of those thoughts.
‘Come back to work,’ he begged.
‘I can’t. I need time. I’ll take a couple of weeks’ holiday until I decide what to do.’
‘I can’t live without you,’ he said.
And Lauren only wished that he’d decided that much, much earlier.
Chapter 82
Following Chelsea’s advice, I now have a growing pile of rubbish – sorry, saleable items – to take to a car-boot sale. I’m sure there must be a dozen round here. I’ll have a scan through the local paper and pick my pitch.
I did also discover, to my surprise, that I do, in fact, have a pretty basket lurking in my loft. So I bribed my dear son to nip down to the local Co-op supermarket for me to buy a few groceries. Now I’ve spent over an hour, propped on my good leg, making a range of sandwiches, chocolate chip muffins and pretty iced cup cakes to sell to my colleagues for their lunch tomorrow. Making sandwiches on one leg, rather than washing cars is, I have to admit, infinitely easier. If not as profitable. Though if I manage to sell twenty sandwiches at two pounds and twenty of the cakes at fifty pence each, that should net me around fifty pounds – which isn’t too shabby and doesn’t involve me wearing ridiculous costumes. And, frankly, I feel that I’ve now developed a severe allergy to silly outfits.
Talking of silly outfits brings my sister to mind. I’ve called Lauren a dozen times today but she’s still not picking up. She does, however, reply to all of my texts. She tells me she’s perfectly fine and I don’t believe a single word of it. If I can’t talk to her today then I’m going to go down to her flat after work tomorrow to see exactly what’s going on.
I’m sure that she’s finding this break-up with Jude incredibly hard, but I’m equally sure that it’s the right thing to do. I know that she’ll need my support if she’s going to get through this.
Greg comes into the kitchen and eyes my tray of cakes. ‘They look good,’ he comments.