What would Pink do?
by Sheila Ware
Copyright 2012 Sheila Ware
Smashwords Edition
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******
for Rob
and my family
*****
Table of Contents
*******
For the first time since putting her brilliant little scheme into action, Maggie Sullivan pushed down a growing knot of anxiety.
‘Maybe I've overdone it a tad with the Wonderbra?’ she muttered distractedly.
The look she had been aiming for was ‘playful with a hint of voluptuous’ but now after catching an unexpected glimpse of her ample décolletage, Maggie wondered if she may have stumbled into ‘voracious with a hint of Erin Brockovich’.
She even surprised herself by wondering if it was too late to cancel.
If only though, she hadn’t felt it necessary to share the humiliations she had suffered at the hands of this guy with friends who had neither forgiven nor forgotten her defection from their cynical urban ranks. Friends who knew only too well how to play on Maggie’s instinctive ‘don’t get mad, get even’ mentality and who were probably, at this very moment, salivating at the prospect of her sticking it to one of the county’s leading lights.
Only now, realisation was dawning that they were all miles away in London, while she, way out of her comfort zone and a newcomer to the village, was very much flying solo.
Her only hope was that this guy could take a joke because, after all, if you dish it out, you have to be able to take it, right? There had been little choice over the years. Steve, one of her oldest friends considered himself a master of the dark-art of practical-jokery and she had been on the receiving end; more than once. Case in point, returning home from a holiday in 2007 to find her front door repainted and renumbered, with a ‘For Sale by Auction – Mortgage Re-Possession’ sign erected in the front garden.
But for Maggie somehow that was different; she and Steve had history. They had been through secondary school together and both knew and understood the rules of engagement. In such circumstances both sides assumed there would be payback; maybe not immediately but payback nevertheless. She had however, no such understanding with this guy Will and unfortunately for him, he’d crossed the line; not once but twice. And if that wasn’t enough, in the process he’d also handed a small but not insignificant victory to some of his oh-so superior friends with whom she had been conducting a low level war of attrition since her arrival in the village.
As indignation simmered, Maggie realised she had been right after all; retribution did indeed need to be swift, effective and painful. Re-emboldened, she allowed herself a few moments of quiet satisfaction at her handiwork for the afternoon. The room, she felt, struck just the right note between subdued and sensual; delicious cooking aromas filled the house and even better, the cleavage enhancing top she had been so uneasy about, did not now so much scream ‘street walker’ as empowerment.
A sudden shrill ring of the door-bell jolted Maggie out of her reverie and she was surprised that instead of a hot flash of panic, all she felt was a rather surreal sense of quiet malevolence.
A last glimpse at her reflection told Maggie everything she needed to know; this was going to work like a charm.
Hands on hips, she announced to the world, ‘OK Erin, it’s show-time!’
Two months earlier
‘Go along and get to know a few people, they’re always looking for willing volunteers.’ Mary had said encouragingly in her lilting Scottish tones.
Against her every townie instinct Maggie had agreed because, as she had seen on the Vicar of Dibley re-runs, living in the country meant joining in things. Her new life in the country would consist of a round of organising committees for village fetes, Christmas pantomimes, harvest suppers, cricket teas and so on. And, if she was honest, after some initial reservations she had actually quite warmed to the idea. In her more fanciful moments she even imagined the possibility of re-inventing herself in her new surroundings as a less cynical, more sophisticated member of the local community.
She might even have succeeded had her London based friends, Steve, Shoes and Rach, not taken it upon themselves to surprise her by coming down to offer their so-called ‘moral support’ at her first official social event; the annual cricket club fundraiser. Or, as Steve more succinctly put it, ‘Facing the local peasantry.’
From the moment they arrived Maggie had an inkling it was likely to be a long and trying evening. Making little effort to hide their amusement at all things rural, everything seemed to be fair game; from passing the local pig farm, ‘Surely that smell can’t be legal, Mags?’ to playing their new favourite game, Spot The Village Idiot and all points in between. Even the disco venue itself could not be spared. The single storey, 1960’s pebble-dashed village hall bearing a sign indicating that it also acted as clubhouse for the local Sea Scouts prompted a, ‘Just remind us Mags, how far are we from the coast here?’
It was a relief therefore, when organisational duties required Maggie to leave them to their own devices just as they were honing in on a poster declaring, ‘...use of the tea urn is specifically reserved for official functions only.’
When she was not hiding from a particularly persistent fellow committee member, Maggie did occasionally find a quiet corner from where she could discreetly monitor her friends’ behaviour. Thankful that a fight had not yet actually broken out, her heart sank as she noticed them exchanging wry smiles when Vince, their portly DJ for the evening, interrupted proceedings to say the raffle would shortly be taking place.
‘...and don’t forget, folks,’ he announced cheerfully, ‘... not only will the lucky winner take away a bumper freezer pack of our finest spare rib chops,’ he hesitated, before adding with a flourish, ‘I’ve thrown in a few kidneys as well.’
Belatedly, it occurred to her that she should have explained that Vince was also the proprietor of the local farm shop. She was still trying to regain her equilibrium when, not content with whipping the crowd into a frenzy of excitement about the vegetarian’s nightmare that was the prize draw, Vince resumed his musical feast of an evening by suddenly growling into the microphone, ‘OK, LET’S ROCK...’
As the first few rifts of Caroline by Status Quo ripped through the sound system, bringing with it a wave of wild-eyed, air guitarists onto the dance floor, she sensed Steve, city boy and arbiter of all things cool and urbane heading in her direction.
Maggie quickly rehearsed her excuses and decided that she could explain this latest ear-splitting crescendo by saying that Vince had specific orders to cater for every musical taste. (Even if that did include the twenty or so bikers who had spent most of the evening out in the car park, worrying the ‘straight kids’ and dry humping their rock chick girlfriends against the bus stop perspex).
As Steve appeared at her elbow, Maggie braced herself for the next round of ‘Country File’ jokes. It was not a long wait.
‘Not exactly Sex in the City, is it?’ His face was deadpan, but his mouth was already twitching into a smirk. ‘More a case of Care in the Community, wouldn’t you say?’
She tried giving him one of her looks but unfortunately, Steve merely took it as encouragement.
He continued dryly, ‘Oh, and judging by the way the club captain is looking at you, I’d say it’s really just a question of time ...’
‘What is ..?’ Maggie asked irritably.
‘...before he makes his move.’ Steve was now really enjoying himself. ‘Over the last couple of hours he’s gone from lovesick puppy, to Colin Farrell eying up the village virgin.’
He waited for a reaction.
When it didn’t come, he shrugged, ‘Trust me, I recognise the look.’
Maggie’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Look I’ve already told you, we’re just on the organising committee together. He’s a really sweet bloke and …’
‘Kiss of death.’
‘Sorry ..?’
‘Being referred to as a really sweet bloke … might as well print LOSER on his forehead and be done with it.’
‘Stevie boy, when will you get it through that thick skull of yours, that Crispin…?’
Cue spluttering from Steve.
‘...yes ... CRISPIN ... and I are friends. I know it. He knows it. Now you know it. Don’t judge everyone by your own standards.’ Maggie continued haughtily, ‘Oh and one more thing, just remember, I have to live in this village, so if you could be gentle with the squire’s daughters … please.’
‘Whatever … just don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Turning back towards her, he added quickly, ‘Uh oh, stand by your beds … here comes Club Captain Crispers now.’
They were joined by the huge, square-jawed cricket player; not a day over twenty. He was eyeing Steve with evident suspicion, whilst speaking to Maggie. ‘There you are.’
He passed Maggie a drink.
Grinning broadly, Steve held out his hand in greeting. When Crispin reciprocated, Maggie noticed Steve blanch as both men tried the ‘I’ll break yours, before you break mine’ handshake.
Steve, teetering on the edge of wincing, muttered, ‘Crispin isn’t it..? I was just saying to Mags, you have a definite look of Colin Farrell about you.’
‘Really, do you think so?’ Crispin, completely drawn in, loosened his grip.
Pleased at the response, Steve continued overly brightly, ‘I bet you get that all the time. The name’s Steve, by the way.’
Maggie wondered how anyone could be gullible enough to take Steve at face value. Not only did Crispin obviously believe the comparison, sadly he now seemed to be looking around the room to see if anyone else had noticed.
Knowing this to be an uneven contest, she intervened.
‘Steve, don’t you have a Britney Spears lookalike waiting for you somewhere?’ She shot him her scary look.
He took the hint but not before giving Crispin a cartoon wink.
‘Oh right … obviously outstaying my welcome … sorry Crispers, we’ll continue this another time.’ As he passed he leant in and hissed in Maggie’s ear, ‘Odds on, public school educated and thick as shit.’ For good measure, on Crispin’s blind side, he added, ‘I’m revising my time scale to within half an hour.’
At Maggie’s icy glare, Steve raised his hands in mock submission and retreated into the crowd. Returning her gaze to Crispin, Maggie pasted on her polite smile.
She felt it starting to slip, as he moved closer. Far too close.
‘Thank god you managed to get rid of him,’ He said intimately. ‘I thought we’d never get a chance for that dance you promised me.’ Maintaining eye contact just that split second too long for there to be any doubt, Maggie realised Steve was right. Crispin was going to make a pass at her, and soon.
Further panic set in as the music changed from a Status Quo, zero body contact dance opportunity, to a full-on slowie. What Steve and the other boys used to refer to at the school disco as the erection section and what Maggie and her school friends called a Three G tune. Shoes, her best friend, had coined the phrase after a particularly exhausting encounter with a snakebite-fuelled adolescent from the fourth form.
‘It was all groin grinding and groping,’ she had said, shuddering with excitement. For Maggie, who at that time in her adolescence had not yet shed her puppy fat, the first few rifts of a Three G’er would see her sprinting for the toilets at breakneck speed.
Crispin, thinking he was being masterful took her drink and placed it on a nearby table. Moving towards her, he lowered his voice. ‘Seriously Maggie, I know you said you weren’t looking for a relationship, but I really would like to talk to you … and without the Rottweilers.’
He nodded in her friends’ direction.
Both sets of eyes alighted on one of the offending group. Shoes appeared to have her face clamped onto the youth team, wicket-keeper. A momentary vision of an anaconda devouring a rabbit, flashed through Maggie’s mind; struggling was futile.
She scanned desperately for her rather more sensible friend, Rach. She was nowhere to be seen.
On the other side of the dance floor, Steve, having expertly manoeuvred young Britney so that he could watch the unfolding scenario with obvious glee, flashed her a, ‘told you so’ smile.
Maggie was already on the move. ‘Just popping to the loo,’ she threw over her shoulder, trying not to break into a run.
Behind, she was vaguely aware of a voice.
‘Oh … OK …’ Crispin was barely able to disguise his disappointment, ‘... I’ll wait outside.’
Once inside the sanctuary of the Ladies, Maggie ran some cold water over her wrists and was in the processing of splashing some onto her flushed cheeks when she heard someone speak.
‘Bad night?’
In the mirror she turned her gaze to a young girl of about seventeen who was rifling noisily through a bag of expensive cosmetics. At least ten years her junior and possessing a stick thin figure, she had that rod straight hair that guaranteed never having to endure a ‘bad hair day’. Maggie’s townie instinct initially was to shrug her shoulders, smile weakly and head for the refuge of a cubicle without speaking, but she was in the country now and feeling obliged to at least, make the effort, she offered something fairly non committal.
‘Just what is it about men?’ Maggie asked incredulously and suddenly warming to her theme, added indignantly, ‘Why is it such an affront to their manhood to say you only want to be friends?’
‘You’re talking Crispin Walden, right?’ The girl seemed to know exactly who Maggie was talking about. ‘Can’t say I blame him though, the guys in my group were saying earlier, that on a scale of one to ten, you were totally nine point five. I’m Sophie Grieve by the way.’
This kind of compliment deserved Maggie’s full attention. Having been somewhat of a late bloomer, compliments, any compliments were always a surprise but never unwelcome. Fighting the temptation to enquire why she not made the full ten, she turned to her new found friend to take a better look. Her thought process was interrupted.
‘Yeah I know …long hair, stick thin figure, blah blah blah ... but what I wouldn’t give for even a hint of cleavage like yours.’ Sophie pulled discontentedly at her top. ‘Life is just so totally unfair.’
Maggie felt obliged to intervene. ‘Don’t be silly … yours are ... well …’ Struggling to find a descriptive word, she gave up and changed tack. Smiling her brightest smile, she held out her hand, ‘It’s Maggie by the way, Maggie Sullivan.’
‘I know ... actually, we call you the ‘it’ girl.’
Maggie was so warming to this girl; she had almost forgotten about the point five, mark down. ‘Really … who’s we?’ She was trying to sound casual.
‘Me and Mary … you know … your next door neighbour. I stay with her sometimes when dad’s away.’
‘Oh, that Mary,’ Maggie said with feeling. The same Mary that convinced me getting involved in this function would be a good idea, she thought darkly. She made a mental note to have a word with Mary.
‘Mmmn … actually she’s my dad’s housekeeper.’ Sophie was now expertly applying lip gloss. ‘She’s just so totally rapt that you’ve moved next door.’
With a sudden whoosh of the door and a cloud of Tresor, a breathless Shoes stumbled in demanding loudly, ‘What on earth have you done to that poor sod, Crispin? He’s outside looking like a lovesick puppy. He’s asked me to check if you’re OK.’ She preened herself in the mirror and checked there was no lipstick on her teeth.
Maggie thought the second reference to a lovesick puppy seemed far too much of a coincidence. ‘Have you and Steve set me up?’ She asked suspiciously.
‘No need, it was obvious right from the moment we arrived, he was moving in for the kill. Honest Mags, you really are hopeless where men are concerned.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I think he’s really quite cute in a hooray henry sort of way.’
Maggie was resolutely unimpressed. ‘If he’s that cute you go out with him. You obviously have a thing for young men.’
‘It’s not me he has the hots for, is it?’ Shoes was trying to sound superior however her eyes were already creasing into a smile, ‘Anyway, I’ve got Harry Potter outside simmering on a low light.’
Maggie was trying to keep a straight face. ‘Christ Shoes, the poor lad looks terrified. I’m thinking of ringing Childline.’
They were still catching their breath when Shoes, could not resist continuing the theme for the night. Scanning the decor, she enthused dryly, ‘Great loos ... very Grange Hill ... do they flush?’
Maggie was about to intercede when there was an interruption.
‘Hi … I’m Sophie.’
Shoes’ smile froze and she eyed the interloper with suspicion.
Maggie, knowing Shoes’ views on the country set felt obliged to step in. ‘God I’m sorry, Sophie, this is my friend Shoes, from London … Shoes, this is Sophie ... she’s helping me hide from Club Captain Crispers.’
Sophie moved closer. ‘Sorry, I totally have to know. Why Shoes?’
Shoes gave Maggie the nod, as in; it’s your turn to give the explanation. Taking a deep breath, Maggie launched into their well rehearsed speech. ‘Shoes, is my nickname for her and has been, ever since we were out celebrating her eighteenth birthday,’ Maggie paused to do the mental calculation, ‘Twelve years ago. Anyway, it was all getting a bit out of order and the police were called. When asked to give her name, which incidentally, on her birth certificate, states Susan Hughes, she could only just about manage an extremely slurred shhooooohhhuuuwws ...’
The last part the two old friends completed in unison, ‘... and so … since that day … she’s always been, Shoes.’
Sophie was full of admiration. ‘This is way more entertaining than being with my friends.’ As a way of cementing their friendship, she added to Maggie, ‘Look, I can totally help you with Crispin. I can say there’s a problem outside with the lads from the local council estate. They’re always like, totally you know, causing trouble ...’
Maggie sensed Shoes bristle at this slight on ‘her people’. Shoes never forgot her roots and what’s more, in an effort to prove it, she always made a point of stopping to buy a copy of The Big Issue. Even if she did admit privately that size wise and for absorbency, it was by far and away the most effective liner for her cat litter tray she had ever found.
Sophie added pensively, ‘Or ... you could do what we always do ...’
‘And that is ...?’ Maggie moved judiciously between the two parties; just in case.
‘Ask yourself ... what would Pink do?’
Met with blank expressions, Sophie prompted, ‘You know ... American singer ...’ Then raising an eyebrow expectantly, ‘Doesn’t take any crap from men?’
Shoes and Sophie exchanged knowing smiles and Maggie could sense an atmosphere of quiet malevolence descending. Before matters deteriorated, she heaved Shoes towards the door. ‘Go on. Young Master Potter will be pining for you. I’m pretty sure he’s got some homework he needs help with.’
Putting up token resistance, Shoes called back over her shoulder. ‘Now you mention it, I’m going to have a little rummage in his pencil case and see if he’s got a pencil that requires some special sharpening.’
As Shoes allowed herself to be eased through the doorway into the noisy throng outside, Sophie’s carefully aimed, scrunched up paper towel bounced off her head.
Crispin suddenly appeared at Shoes’ shoulder, calling past her earnestly, ‘Are you in there Maggie? Is everything OK?’
Caught out, Maggie froze in surprise. Struggling to come up with anything remotely sensible to say, she looked pleadingly towards her friends. Already, Shoes and Sophie were making knowing eye contact and Sophie was mouthing with a very unattractive glint in her eye, ‘W...W... P... D?’
Without missing a beat Shoes turned, took Crispin by the arm and shouted above the music, ‘Actually, there is something you can do. The tampon machine has broken down, so if you could just pop to the Chemist in….’
He was gone before she finished the sentence.
Turning triumphantly and puffing herself up to her full height, Shoes announced proudly, ‘I think my work here is done.’
Sophie was on the brink of hero worship. ‘You guys are totally awesome.’
‘TOTALLY,’ Maggie and Shoes laughed in agreement.
Late the following morning, Maggie stumbled down the stairs of her cottage to survey the wreckage of the living room and decided that, given the list of priorities, coffee and Sunday papers took precedent. Her overnight guests and all their possessions appeared to have gone. She did have a vague recollection of hearing voices sometime during her lie-in, calling their goodbyes from the other side of her bedroom door.
Maggie found a note propped up against the kettle in the kitchen.
Getting a taxi to the station. Hoping to catch the 11.15 a.m. to London. Thanks for last night and the chance to see how the other half live! Helped ourselves to coffee. Would have cleared up but don’t know where things go.
Speak soon,
Steve and Rach. P.S. No sign of Shoes!
Underneath in Steve’s scrawl there was a PPS – Rach is lying through her teeth. We thought about clearing up but couldn’t be arsed!
Digging out her mobile from her handbag, Maggie called her errant friend. It occurred to her that she should at least check everything was OK. After a couple of rings, Shoes answered with a grunt.
Ignoring it, Maggie ploughed on. ‘Where are you?’
‘In bed,’ Shoes croaked as though she were in pain.
‘Yours?’ Met with silence Maggie eventually ventured, ‘Would I be right in thinking you got involved in some extra curricula activities with young Master Potter?’ When further silence ensued, ‘What’s the going rate these days for baby-sitting?’
‘Hilarious,’ Shoes said flatly before going on the offensive herself, ‘Heard from Club Captain Crispers?’
Maggie let it go; instead she asked a favour. ‘Look, I didn’t get a chance to say last night. I’ve got a course in London this week. Can I stay at yours?’
‘Sure you want to risk it?’
‘Why, you’re not cooking are you?’
Shoes was suddenly serious. ‘What I meant was ... Steve’s still getting used to the idea of you living down there.’ She added patiently, ‘He’s been like a bear with a sore head since you left...’
‘It’s a course, that’s all,’ Maggie reiterated with a sigh. She was a little tired of Shoes and Rach’s long-held theory that she and Steve were destined for each other. To her great relief she was distracted by a familiar figure passing her window followed by gentle tapping on the back door.
‘Sorry, got to go ... Mary’s at the back door and ...’ Maggie dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘... if I’m not mistaken, she’s carrying a cake tin. Still say moving to the country was a bad idea?’
As she disconnected Maggie was vaguely aware of a voice, ‘Save me a piece...’
‘No chance, sucker,’ she muttered as she swung open the door.
Not surprisingly, Mary looked a little puzzled as she stepped into the kitchen. ‘Sorry, what was that, sweetie?’ Without waiting for an answer she added, ‘I couldn’t wait to hear your version of how it went last night. Sophie’s been full of it all morning.’
Maggie managed to drag her eyes away from the cake-tin and feign interest. ‘Oh, fine I think. No trouble.’ She added innocently, ‘Did I mention, I haven’t had time for breakfast?’ Subtlety was never her strong point.
To her dismay, Mary picked up the cake tin, moved back towards the door and said bossily while pulling it open, ‘I just came to say, I’ve got a joint in the oven, Sophie’s done the vegetables and you’re expected at twelve thirty to eat at one … and yes, I am taking the cake tin with me. You just have time to shower and dress.’
Maggie moved to go upstairs but not before planting a kiss on Mary’s cheek, ‘Ever thought of adoption?’ She asked with a smile.
Mary was resolute, ‘Absolutely no lemon drizzle cake for you missy, until you’re showered and dressed!’
Maggie scaled the stairs two at a time.
As Mary had reached a crucial stage with the gravy and did not want any distractions, Maggie was unceremoniously waved in the direction of the sitting room, and Sophie. She had never made it past the kitchen before, only ever having shared a coffee with Mary whilst leaning companionably against the breakfast bar.
In the centre of Mary’s sitting room and unaware of Maggie’s presence, Sophie lay sprawled face down on a rug surrounded by Sunday papers. One raised foot was beating time to a Beatles tune as she read. In no hurry to interrupt her concentration, Maggie was grateful for a moment to check out her surroundings.
Low table lamps aglow in each corner gave the beamed room a warm honey tone; in direct contrast to the steel grey, November sky outside. A huge peach sofa, of the type you want to dive into, sat under the window and a couple of cosy wing back chairs surrounded the fireplace where logs crackled in the hearth. The room was everything Maggie expected it to be; in fact it was just like Mary, relaxed and warm.
Delicious cooking smells permeated the house and for a moment Maggie thanked her lucky stars for her move to the country. As a girl, Sundays with her widower father had been lonely affairs. Her dad normally met his best friend, Jonnie and some of the market boys for a pint or two before returning and knocking up a mountain of sausage and mash for Sunday lunch. When Maggie was old enough to try her own cooking, attempts at roasts had initially been a disaster. With time though, she had been able to turn out a reasonable roast chicken dinner especially, as her father had often reminded her, when she remembered to remove the giblets.
As she took in the surroundings, Maggie realised that as a child, this was how she imagined everyone else lived. They all had warm, cosy houses, home cooked food and angelic looking mothers who when you were ill, tucked you up on a sofa like Mary’s, with a blanket and some hot chocolate.
It had been Shoes who reminded her that no-one really lived like that, well not in our world anyway.
On top of the pile of Sunday supplements sat Mary’s cat, Desmond, (after the Archbishop), pretending to be disinterested but still making life difficult. Sophie, trying hard not to dislodge him, was endeavouring to extricate one of the magazines. Irritated that her long straight hair was hanging like a curtain restricting her sight, she picked up the weight of it and with one deft hand movement, managed to create a hair style something akin to Audrey Hepburn’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Maggie swallowed a knot of jealousy. She had fought a constant and never ending battle with her blond (bordering on sandy, according to Shoes) curls. Every day had the potential to be a bad hair day and the merest hint of dampness in the atmosphere sent her into a state of anxiety. As her friends so succinctly put it, she would end up looking either like, ‘Someone who had dropped a hairdryer into their bathwater,’ courtesy of Steve or, less kindly from Shoes, ‘A pre-Raphaelite prostitute’.
Visits to the hairdressers were not quite so traumatic once she had been able to afford the more expensive London salons. In their teens, Shoes, Rach and Maggie had saved hard for their first hairdressing experience in the local precinct. The hapless hairdresser whose assistant had neglected to use the bucket of conditioner required for Maggie’s hair type, was forced to practically wedge her foot on Maggie’s shoulder for leverage in an effort to drag a comb through her newly washed tangles. Maggie and her friends had never forgotten the poor woman, trying to put a positive slant on the situation saying through gritted teeth, ‘You’re so lucky … your hair is very forgiving.’
Mary suddenly called through, ‘Sophie … get Maggie a G & T, would you?’
God! She so loved this woman!
On seeing Maggie, Sophie let out an excited squeal and scrambled to her feet. As Desmond retreated in surprise to the window sill, Maggie baulked as Sophie launched herself towards her. This was one of the downsides of moving out of her group of friends; someone she hardly knew would want to kiss her as though she was a long lost relative. She thought of Shoes who always commented when confronted by the gentrification of ‘our’ areas of London, ‘Can you imagine what the stall holders on the market would say? What is wrong with these people? Why does everything have to be so luvvie?’
Shoes was a reporter and had even written a few articles about it.
Sophie’s full on two-cheeker and hug rocked Maggie back on her heels. Suppressing the voice in her ear telling her that she had sold out, Maggie allowed Sophie to slide her arm through hers and in the manner of bosom pals lead her through to the dining area.
As she popped a lemon slice into a highball glass, Sophie eyed Maggie approvingly. ‘You should meet my father,’ she said lightly.
‘Why ..?’ Maggie was already on the defensive. She was not above a bit of stereotyping herself and some pot bellied, Land Rover driving farmer, dragging her off to a hare coursing event ... whatever that was ... was not her idea of fun.
‘You’d be good for him; he needs to lighten up a bit.’ Sophie added pointedly, ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’
Maggie was left gasping at her bluntness. She shot right back, ‘Have you?’
For the moment she appeared to have called Sophie’s bluff. Seeming as keen as Maggie to change the subject, she suddenly enthused a little too loudly, ‘Isn’t Mary a darling … she’s just so totally like a grandmother to me.’
Maggie felt it politic to disagree loudly enough for Mary’s benefit, just in case she was listening.
‘Erm ... I’m not sure Mary would thank you for calling her that.’
When Maggie thought about it, she guessed Mary was probably in her fifties but she had a twinkle in her eye that gave away the fact that she was much younger at heart. She was what Jonnie her boss would have referred to, as a ‘fine looking’ woman. Generally in ‘Jonnie speak,’ that meant, someone who had been good looking at one time but was now a little fuzzie around the edges. It could have been worse; he might have referred to her as ‘having a heart of gold’. In ‘Jonnie speak’ that meant pug ugly but play your cards right and she’ll do a bit of housework for you. Jonnie really was quite the expert on women.
Sophie passed her the drink. It was clinking with ice and still fizzing with tonic. Gently, Maggie took a sip. To her slightly dehydrated mouth it was pure heaven. This really was the icing on the cake and whilst she was vaguely aware of Sophie wittering away in the background, she found her thoughts drifting once again. Here I am, a guest waiting to be fed a home cooked roast. No shopping for the food, no cooking, and with a bit of luck, no washing up (she had already clocked the dishwasher in the kitchen). It was as much as she could do not to ring Shoes again and gloat.
A mental picture of her friend flashed into her mind. She would probably be back at home now, wracked with guilt in her spartan London flat, desperately trying to defrost some microwaveable, healthy option meal for one that she had found wedged in the back of her freezer compartment. Oh yes, and a yogurt two days past its sell-by date. Shoes never ate anything before the sell-by date. It was a matter of principle she always joked. Oh, and not forgetting, Sunday is her laundry day.
Poor Shoes!
Maggie let out a contented sigh. Raising her glass to Sophie, she said with feeling, ‘Happy days.’
Lunch, roast beef and all the trimmings had been delicious. A bottle of full blooded red had also been opened and by the time the apple and cinnamon crumble (with proper custard of course) had arrived, Maggie was feeling pretty mellow. As always when she mixed gin and wine, her cheeks had flushed pink and she was aware that her customary townie reserve was slipping.
Maggie had always valued her privacy. In London, no-one knew or bothered about your past and anyway, the people she cared about already knew all there was to know. This would be another of the downsides of the move to the country. As the new person in the village, she was obviously the object of intense interest and would at some point have to give an account of herself and how she came to move into the area. Bracing herself for the inevitable questions, Maggie put up scant resistance as Mary insisted on pouring the last of the wine into her special guest’s glass.
She knew what was coming when she heard, ‘Now Maggie …’
She held her breath.
‘...we want to hear all about you.’
******
The course in London had gone well and even better, had finished on time. Maggie rushed from the building to avoid the inevitable, ‘We must keep in touch because we bonded so well during ‘role play’.
As she approached the pub, Maggie hesitated before entering. Stepping back from the threshold, she took a moment. Against the dark, damp London air, the brightness of the lights and the noisy laughter coming from inside felt comforting and familiar. This is a city pub she thought, no frills, no beams, no food; well … maybe the odd packet of pork scratchings. Oh sure she loved a country pub, who didn’t? They are all about good food and atmosphere. You can have a civilised conversation without struggling to be heard and sit comfortably by a log fire and yet, and yet … here was a London boozer, plain and simple. The sort of pub where she and her friends, with a wink from the landlord, had had their first underage drinks and, for that matter, their first lock-in. This was the sort of place her new neighbours would be afraid to go into. Where, they would imagine pick-pockets and drug dealers lay in wait for their less street-wise, unsuspecting victims.
Swinging the door open, Maggie realised she could walk in on her own without feeling self-conscious. Dropping her shoulder into any hint of a gap, she expertly made her way through the crowded bar. Craning her neck, she could see Rach and Steve already seated at a table, deep in conversation. No Shoes of course, she would be last to arrive, as ever.
As Maggie approached Rach let out a cry of relief, ‘Thank Christ, the cavalry’s arrived.’
Hanging her jacket on the back of a chair and grateful there would be no greeting kisses to negotiate, Maggie sat down. ‘Hi guys, what seems to be the problem?’
‘It’s Steve, he’s decided to give me a blow-by-blow account of his date with his latest conquest, and trust me, I use the words blow-by-blow advisedly,’ sighed Rach.
Maggie teased in her best headmistress, ‘Sounds to me Stephen, like you’ve been a very, very naughty boy indeed.’
Steve, picking up the theme, replied in his best headmaster. ‘And you, Margaret Anne, sound just a tad jealous.’ Reverting to his normal London Jack the Lad, he said proudly, ‘And for the record ladies, one more on my list. She’s a traffic warden.’
Steve and Shoes had an ongoing competition involving ‘nailing,’ as they so quaintly put it, any member of the opposite sex, sporting a uniform. Steve clearly felt he was ahead on points. He was suddenly looking over Maggie’s shoulder.
‘Watch out, here comes little miss charm school now.’ He had spotted Shoes making her way forcefully through the crowded pub, oblivious to the spilt drinks, crushed toes and glares trailing in her wake. Grabbing a chair from an already occupied table she dragged it towards her friends.
The table’s startled occupants were exchanging looks when Maggie leant across to them and confided, ‘She’s a tabloid journalist,’ in a, ‘what can you do,’ sort of way. Nodding to each other that no further explanation was necessary, everyone got on with their lives.
‘OK, who’s in the chair?’ Shoes clearly needed a drink.
‘You are … and theirs.’ Steve nodded in the direction of their disgruntled neighbours. ‘Your round, Shoes. You know the rule; last here buys the beer.’ As Shoes sulkily got to her feet, he called after her, ‘Try not to get into any fights at the bar, I’m the only guy here.’
Steve needn’t have worried; he could look after himself. As a semi-pro boxer he had the scars to prove it. Not enough to spoil his boyish good looks you understand; just enough to make him look ‘hard’. He turned his attention to Maggie.
‘So ... how’s young Crispers?’ he asked sardonically.
‘Dreamy ...’ Maggie deadpanned, ‘We’re thinking about a spring wedding.’
Steve barely cracked a smile.
Amused at seeing her friends eyeing each other warily, Rach said pointedly, ‘Steve will never forgive you Mags; you’ll always be the one that got away.’
It was obvious as Steve shifted uncomfortably, that Rach had touched a nerve. Steve had not reacted well to Maggie’s move. Initially, when Jonnie first mooted the plan to relocate his ever expanding business operation to a country estate in Wiltshire, Steve had ridiculed the idea and spent hours conspiring with Maggie’s friends, warning her about the dire consequences.
‘They’re all sheep shaggers,’ Shoes had said matter-of-factly one night.
‘No, that’s Wales … this is Wiltshire,’ Steve had scolded, as if she was ignorant. ‘In Wiltshire, they marry their cousins … you’ll need to check how many fingers and toes they have.’
‘Don’t you have to shoot things and gut them yourself in the country?’ Rach had mused.
When, to his surprise Maggie had actually gone ahead with the move, Steve had taken it so badly, there was a period when they were barely on speaking terms. It had taken a massive effort on Maggie’s part to repair things by reminding him that Jonnie was not only her boss, he was also her godfather and now the nearest thing she had to family. It had been an uphill struggle but they were now, at least, on an even keel.
It was for that reason Maggie felt the need to pretend her new life was difficult. No way could she admit that actually, there were many reasons why living in the country was infinitely better. First and foremost there was her little cottage; the first house she had ever been able to call her own. Then there was her sassy, Scottish neighbour, Mary, who had taken her under her wing and plied her with home-cooked food. Best of all there was her surrogate family, now settled in their country pile; not only Jonnie, but also his ‘diamond’ of a mother Dot, who had always been like a grandmother to her.
Apart from that, there was no daily commute into the heart of London; just ten minutes out of the village in the sporty little number Jonnie had provided as a company car now that she had somewhere safe to park it. And last but not least; her breathtaking new working environment; a converted stable block set in the beautiful grounds of Jonnie’s estate.
In truth, it was no contest.
She missed her friends, of course she did, but strangely, she found she could enjoy her trips to London much more now that she could escape when she wanted to.
Shoes returned with a wobbly tray of drinks. ‘Sorry for the delay, some tosser at the bar tried to chat me up.’
Steve perked up a little. ‘Not in uniform though, is he?’ He added provocatively, ‘Have I mentioned Lovely Rita, Meter Maid?’
‘No,’ Shoes was unloading the tray, ‘But I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.’
‘Let’s just say … it’s a full time job keeping her meter fed.’
Shoes was resolutely unimpressed. ‘Sorry Stevie boy, I bagged my first traffic warden months ago and anyway…’ She was now sounding superior, like she had really thought this through, ‘I’m thinking outside the box. The normal uniform types … police, army and …’ she was nodding in Steve’s direction, ‘... traffic wardens, are just not challenge enough for me. I’m extending my range somewhat, to more obscure uniforms … you know like…’
As Shoes paused for thought, Maggie couldn’t resist.
‘School uniforms?’
Later that night after a takeaway and a few drinks, everyone was feeling a little mellow. Shoes, their host for the evening had thrown caution to the wind and tidied up a bit. She had even run a cloth round the bathroom. Her guests were scathing.
‘You never clean up when I come over. Now the Duchess ...’ as Steve had taken to referring to Maggie, ‘...is paying a state visit, you come over all domesticated.’
Maggie threw a cushion at him. It missed.
‘So ... Mags ...’ Steve was fixing her with a stare.
Maggie braced herself. She guessed what was coming.
‘Team Captain Crispers,’ He was watching her closely, ‘Has he made it to the inner sanctum?’ Steve always referred to Maggie’s bedroom as the inner sanctum. She had once admitted when pressed, that on the few occasions when she had ‘succumbed physically’, she chose venues far from home. No way would she let anyone invade the ‘sanctuary’ that was her bedroom. Over time for Steve, the whole idea of gaining access to Maggie’s inner sanctum began to take on almost mythical status. Amongst their friends it was a great source of comic diversion. Shoes always joked that the quest for the Holy Grail would have been less time consuming and fruitful.
Maggie decided to treat the comment with her usual disdain.
Failing to provoke a reaction, Steve tried another tack. ‘You know what I noticed about the country set?’ he said provocatively.
Maggie had guessed it was only a question of time before Steve had another dig at her new neighbours.
Not waiting for an answer Steve said bluntly. ‘They can’t swear properly.’
Everyone looked stunned.
‘I mean it … they can’t swear properly.’ Mimicking Crispin, he continued sarcastically, ‘Hey guys … I’ve just bought a great pair of fuck off skis ...’ Looking appalled, he added indignantly, ‘I mean, for fuck’s sake … there’s an art in swearing and they patently haven’t mastered it.’
Maggie felt obliged to defend her new friends. ‘Look, the working classes don’t have a monopoly on the F word, you know. Anyway, they don’t have the lifetime of experience in using the word, like you do. Didn’t someone actually ask if you had Taurette’s once?’
Steve was helping himself to the last of the takeaway. He looked over sulkily.
‘He’s just jealous,’ Shoes said absentmindedly.
‘Yeah … right!’ Steve spluttered.
‘She’s right,’ Rach was matter of fact. ‘He hates the thought of you meeting some Hugh Grant type and suddenly feeling the urge to buy frocks from Laura Ashley.’
Maggie laughed. ‘Don’t worry Steve., I’m still a Topshop girl at heart.’ As Shoes topped up her drink, Maggie decided to go on the offensive. ‘Anyway, any self respecting group of females should always have a gay male friend, not a knuckle dragging hetero, like you.’
The girls laughed but Steve was resolutely unimpressed.
Shoes asked, ‘Remember that gay football team when you used to play Sunday morning football?’
Rach continued, ‘...and we met them for a drink after the game?’
‘Yeah,’ Maggie was keen to join in, ‘They were discussing gay rights and the macho world of football. They asked you, as a card carrying pugilist if you would consider playing for a gay team … and you said …’
Shoes did her Steve impression. ‘Personally, I don’t have a problem with gays … it’s just the ones that keep trying to ram it down your throat all the time.’
Steve allowed the laughter to subside before fighting back. ‘Well, at least I didn’t accuse Tracy O’Brien’s grandfather of being a pervert. Poor man only rang to say he would give you girls a lift home.’
Shoes was indignant. ‘He said he was on his way round ... and he was breathing funny.’
Steve interrupted, ‘Shoes … the poor fucker had emphysema.’
Shoes made a tactical withdrawal; announcing loudly she needed a pee. Impressively, given the amount she had had to drink she even managed, after a slight struggle to get to her feet, a flounce out of the room. Pausing in the doorway she said bossily, hands on hips, ‘...and when I return we shall be discussing how to breathe life into the limp, lifeless corpse that is Maggie’s sex life now that she has joined the riding crop and jodhpurs brigade.’
Maggie, knowing she had no chance of escape as she was staying the night, tried vainly to protest. Her love life, or lack of it, seemed to mesmerise her friends. They had made it their mission in life to increase her IVAD count. In ‘Shoes speak’ this meant; I’ve ‘ad him, I’ve ‘ad him, etc.
Steve, always taking every opportunity to increase his own count, gallantly offered his services. ‘You know Mags, if you would only give up your frankly disturbing theory that men and women can just be friends …’ He swept his hand theatrically across his body, ‘... all this could be yours.’
Maggie was already laughing. ‘This may come as news to you Steve, but with some women it takes more than a couple of Bacardi Breezers and a strawberry flavoured condom.’
‘This may come as news to you Mags but sometimes I don’t even have to throw in the strawberry flavoured condom.’ He raised an eyebrow.
Turning to Rachel for moral support, Maggie saw her reaching for pen and paper. It was obvious she had decided it would be helpful to make a list. Knowing this was too much of a coincidence, Maggie threw up her hands in exasperation.
‘Great, this is an ambush, give that paper to me.’ Met with resistance she added forcefully, ‘NOW!’
Sheepishly, Rach handed over the paper. It was as Maggie suspected; there were already names on it. Not many, but nevertheless this represented her friends’ stab at her IVAD list. Maggie was astonished to find Steve’s name at the top. ‘Half of these people I haven’t even snogged, let alone shagged. And how come you get a mention, Stevie boy?’
‘Look, the list was clearly going to be an embarrassment to you,’ Steve said patiently. ‘So we thought...’ he and Rach nodded to each other in agreement, ‘... anyone who had given you The Bud, should get a mention. You know … to signify that you are not in fact, dead from the waist down.’
For the uninitiated and according to the collected wisdom of Shoes, adolescent boys got The Horn, adolescent girls got The Bud.
Maggie was unimpressed. ‘So … I repeat my original question. How come you get a mention, Stevie boy?’
Shoes had re-entered the room with a bottle of tequila and some slices of lime. It was clear this was going to be a long night. She had obviously overheard how the conversation was developing. She addressed Maggie, ‘Oh, we all knew you had The Bud for Steve at school. Sadly, Stevie here was too busy laying the foundations of a lifetime of casual one night stands with his adoring entourage, and...’ realising Steve was about to interrupt, she raised her hand in acknowledgement, ‘Yes, before you say it, that did include me and...’ she turned her gaze to her friend, ‘if I’m not mistaken ... Rach?’
Rach had decided it was time for a loo break and left the room a little too quickly for there to be any doubt.
Shoes poured four tequilas and began passing them round before addressing Maggie again. ‘You know it was only later, when you transformed from miss frumpy lard arse, to miss sexy pert bottom, that Steve suddenly decided he had The Horn for you … isn’t that right, Stevie?’
Steve looked suitably uncomfortable. Shoes had always described Maggie’s transformation during her latter school years, as like watching Miss Piggy morph into Kylie Minogue’s big sister within the space of a year. Shoes had even asked if she had sold her soul to the devil.
Steve said very earnestly to Maggie, ‘I always thought you had a great personality,’ before adding quickly with a smile, ‘And if you ever think of adding to your pitifully scant IVAD list, hey … I’d be only too glad to help out.’
‘...and of course reach Maggie’s inner sanctum.’ Shoes raised an eyebrow knowingly.
Maggie always took it in good part. ‘Too late Stevie, you had your chance and anyway, I don’t think of you in that way now. We’re more like family and you’re more like a brother.’
Steve smiled, ‘Yeah, but you live in the country now, don’t you? Incest is practically compulsory.’
*******
The train picked up speed and as the countryside zipped past, Maggie pushed away the notes she been trying to decipher on the course she had attended in London. With the words seeming to swim in front of her eyes after her late night, Maggie surrendered herself to the torpor that was enveloping her. Easing herself back into the seat, she decided that now she didn’t have a daily commute, she actually quite liked train journeys; especially long ones.
Also comforting her was the thought of her car waiting at the station and the long, hot soak in the tub she had promised herself for later. Even better was the message from Mary to say that there would be something tasty in the kitchen that only needed a few minutes in the microwave.
As the rhythm of the train gently rocked her, Maggie was already imagining her perfect upcoming night in. She could finish that novel she was part way through and maybe listen to a sloppy CD compilation.
No doubt about it, her new life was slowly drawing her in. Letting out a contented sigh, she decided God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
The following evening, Mary was listening attentively to Maggie’s explanation as to why her much anticipated ideal night-in had not quite materialised. On her drive home from the station, as she fumbled with her dipped and full-beam headlights (something that was not so much of an issue in the city), she had caught sight of an injured dog lying by the side of the road. To her eternal shame she had actually considered driving on by. Forcing herself to stop in the dark, isolated lane, Maggie had tentatively approached the poor creature and her fate had been sealed when, although injured, it had tried to lick her hand.
‘The Vicar and his grateful entourage are coming in about an hour,’ Maggie explained.
The Vicar had turned out to be the owner of the dog.
‘Oh, John and his brood,’ Mary hesitated before continuing, ‘Lovely guy but, oh dear! Be warned. Don’t mention music and especially don’t mention modern jazz. He’s got a vast LP collection and trust me … he could bore for England.’
‘Thanks for the warning … duly noted.’
‘What time did you get back in the end?’
‘About ten thirty,’ Maggie sighed, ‘I was absolutely shattered.’
‘What news on the dog today?’
‘Not great but apparently he’ll be OK. I spoke to the Vicar … sorry, I mean John … again earlier. I gather his children are bringing round a home-made thank you card.’ Maggie grimaced as she added, ‘He probably won’t thank me though … when he gets the vet’s bill.’
Mary smiled her agreement. ‘It can’t have been much fun, trying to deal with an injured dog that late at night, in a dark, country lane. Didn’t anyone else stop?’
‘Err... yes, a car did stop...’ Maggie said indignantly, ‘... one of those brutish, four-wheel drive things ... with two men in it.’
‘...and?’ Mary sensed there was a story to tell.
‘How can I put this ... one guy sat in the car complaining, come on just leave it. This could take all night.’ She said indignantly.
‘...and the other ..?’ Mary prompted.
‘The other seemed quite sensible at first. At least he got out of the car. I came back from getting my good picnic blanket out of the boot to find him bending over the dog saying, it’s cold, let me just fetch something from the car. So I’m thinking ... what a nice guy ... how thoughtful ... he’s probably trying to save me using my blanket and then what does he do?’
Mary waited patiently.
‘...he goes to his car ... takes a jumper off the back seat ... pulls it over his head and says, that’s better! She chuckled, ‘And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I wouldn’t give him my mobile number, because... ’ she was now breathless with derision, ‘...apparently he needed to check I got back OK, he insisted that I wait, with an injured dog in the car, while he found his business card so that I could phone him!’
Mary laughed. ‘And they say the age of chivalry is dead?’ Moving Maggie out of the way, so she could get to the fridge, she added, ‘I take it you didn’t ... phone him, that is?’
‘What do you think?’
Mary smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Anyway … how was London?’
‘Oh you know … it was good to catch up with my friends though.’
Mary was hunting for cups in a cupboard. After a slight pause, she said, ‘I gather they caused quite a stir at the Cricket Club ‘do’ the other night.’
As Mary had her back to her, Maggie wasn’t sure whether a point was being made. Deciding a change of subject was in order, she said cheerfully, ‘My boss Jonnie is back from his buying trip tomorrow.’
‘He’s the one you call the oldest swinger in town, right?’
‘Fraid so!’ Realising she sounded disloyal, Maggie added quickly, ‘He knows we call him that, by the way. You know, I’d love you to meet him and Dot. You must come out to lunch one day. You two would really hit it off.’
Mary gave her a ‘don’t you dare’ look.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Maggie laughed, ‘I meant, you and Dot. To be brutally honest, you’re not really Jonnie’s type. Trust me, the older he gets … the younger they get.’
Mary looked puzzled.
‘... his girlfriends.’
Mary busied herself mashing the tea. She always used a proper tea pot. None of this tea bag in cup nonsense; Maggie had been informed early on. Mid-mash Mary said, ‘You must meet my boss too. I’d be interested to see what he makes of you.’
‘Oh?’
The phone interrupted them. Moving towards it with a knowing smile, Mary was soon distracted by the call. After a few moments, she covered the receiver and mouthed, it’s him.
Not wanting to overhear the conversation, Maggie moved out of earshot.
When the call ended a few minutes later, Mary explained, ‘Just making some weekend arrangements for Sophie.’
‘I get the impression from talking to her that they seem to have a … how can I put this …’ Maggie spoke cautiously, ‘... long distance relationship?’
‘He’s worked away a lot in the past … let’s just say he indulges her.’
‘Hmmn … indulges ...’ Maggie weighed it up, ‘... great word.’
Drawing a line under the topic, Mary took a breath. ‘Right … tea. Be a darling and pour would you … you know where everything is. I’ve got a magazine upstairs I meant to put out for you.’
As she moved toward the stairs, the phone rang again. Before Maggie could offer to get it, Mary was already disappearing. ‘Let it go to answer phone, it can’t be that important,’ she called dismissively, over her shoulder.
While Maggie busied herself around the kitchen, she was vaguely aware of the phone ringing out then indulged herself by mimicking Mary’s lilting message, emphasising her soft Scottish accent. After the beep, a male voice broke her concentration.
‘Hi … Mary … are you there?’
Something about the tone made Maggie hesitate. She had a thing about deep male voices. In fact for her, the highlight of any trip to the cinema was the preview guy growling his way through the upcoming releases. The voice continued when Mary did not pick up.
‘... I forgot to say earlier. When I get back can we talk about this new neighbour of yours … Maggie is it? I’m hearing all kinds of stories about her and her friends. So … can you avoid asking her round when Sophie’s there? It’s just that she really doesn’t need any more attitude at the moment.’ Then as a jokey afterthought, ‘And let’s be honest …we can do without her picking up the accent. Well, that was it really … OK … I’ll call you.’
Maggie had been about to pour milk into the cups but had frozen at the mention of her name. Gradually, she became aware of Mary standing in the doorway watching her open mouthed. Studiously, Maggie made herself concentrate on continuing as if nothing had happened. Keeping her voice steady and already knowing the answer, Maggie asked anyway, ‘You don’t take sugar do you?’