The Big Five O. Jane Wenham-Jones
pocket.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Don’s booked a court for nine.’ Roger patted his stomach. ‘It’s going to be hard work – I’ve lost fitness doing all these long hours–’
Charlotte tried to read his expression. Was this an act for her benefit? Reminding her of the demands of work so she wouldn’t question it if he came home late? Was it even really his friend Don who’d sent a message?
‘Well, don’t have a heart attack!’
‘Nah, we’ll take it easy – a couple of old gents together.’
Charlotte suddenly and inexplicably felt close to tears.
She knew how the others saw it. ‘Hostess-with-the-mostest’, Sherie always called her. She knew from the outside her life looked idyllic – the big family home in Kingsgate, the loving husband, the great kids, regular holidays and frequent entertaining. And it was good – she’d always known how lucky she was. She was the one the other three relied on to always look on the bright side, to feed and nurture everyone, to open a bottle, stick a roast in the oven and make everything all right again. She was a regular, if ageing, Pollyanna. Wasn’t she?
Except now she felt strange. Lost somehow. Even when she was talking and laughing, these days she was always touched with a low-level dread as if something terrible was about to happen. For the first time ever, she lay awake at 4.a.m. worrying about things she’d usually not give a second thought to. She dithered over what to wear, felt anxious about something happening to one of the children. Or Roger. Bloody Roger – it was all his fault she was stressed like this.
Roger was supposed to be her best friend who she’d trust with her life. She had once. She’d forgiven him for Hannah but she realised she’d never been completely at ease since.
As Joe ambled into the room, Charlotte busied herself getting the tray out of the Aga so neither of them would see the tears in her eyes.
Fay might think that Charlotte was as tough as she was, but Charlotte knew she wasn’t at all …
Fay cracked three eggs into sizzling oil and expertly flipped the sausages browning under the grill, throwing a look at the young man lolling in her kitchen doorway. She remembered the evening she’d told the others about Cory.
‘It’s the perfect arrangement for both of us,’ Fay had explained, smiling at Sherie’s look of amazement. ‘I get a lithe young body in bed with me and he gets a decent breakfast. When Cory stays with Tiffany or whatever her name is, it’s chipped mugs and a biscuit if he’s lucky.’
Sherie had looked appalled. ‘You know he’s got someone else?’
Fay had snorted. ‘Of course he has! He’s twenty-three – wants to be at it all the time – and I don’t want him round more than once a week. I love to see him come–’ she gave a dirty chuckle ‘–as it were, and I’m happy to see him go again–’ Fay had enjoyed the way the others were gawping at her. ‘Confident that he will return because he gets double bacon and toast with proper butter.’
Charlotte had given her a huge grin. Roz nodded with admiration. But Sherie, as usual, persisted. ‘But don’t you want–’
‘Something long-term or permanent?’ Fay was brisk. ‘No thanks – I tried that and it didn’t suit me. Can’t be doing with someone hanging around all the time. I go through my front door and I shut it behind me and I thank the Lord it’s just me. The only bit that bothers me is why on earth I didn’t give Dave his marching orders earlier!’
‘How long ago was it?’ Sherie always wanted the detail.
‘I don’t know,’ Fay’s tone suggested she couldn’t be bothered to work it out. ‘Seven years or so. Best thing I ever did.’
Sherie had opened her mouth and shut it again.
As Cory came up behind her, and put his arms around Fay’s waist, there was a moment when she thought what she’d told Sherie might almost be true. She pictured Dave walking away from her down the path, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, a bulging bag in his other hand. She’d sat quite still on the bottom stair, watching through the still-open front door. She had stayed there a long time.
Fay jerked back to the present as Cory nuzzled into her neck. ‘Are we having hash browns?’
‘I’ve got some fried potatoes in the oven.’
‘That’s why I love you.’
‘Pah!’ She nudged him off as she crossed to the coffee machine, blowing air out dismissively. ‘Through your stomach.’
He often said things like that. The young were supposed to be thoughtless and self-absorbed and she’d have expected him to be off like a long dog once the wake-up shag was over, but he was always tactile and affectionate in the mornings. Would hang about after breakfast if it was a weekend, and talk to her about his job at the bakery, his family, his mate Josh who was earning a fortune in Canary Wharf but sleeping so little and sticking so much coke up his nose that Cory worried he would fall apart.
He asked Fay questions too but she told him little. He knew she was running the business her late father had started when she was a baby, that she was divorced, that she spoke reasonable Spanish and could knit. But she was careful about anything more.
‘Nothing heavy,’ she’d warned, when he’d first come home with her after pitching up at Green’s wine bar with a couple of pals, the night she was running the quiz. ‘We’re just doing each other a favour.’
She hadn’t expected to see him again but back he came, week after week. Now he’d suggested they spend this entire Friday to Sunday together but Fay had just laughed. ‘Do you really want to look at me sprawled on the sofa in my pyjamas with a facemask on?’
He laughed too. ‘You wouldn’t be!’
‘I would. Weekends off are my down time. You can come Friday night and bugger off in the morning. And if you’re very good, you can pop in Sunday afternoon for a cup of tea and a scone.’
‘You sound like my nan.’
‘I expect I’m older than she is.’
She certainly had a couple of years on his mother. Cory had mentioned his mum’s forty-seventh birthday a few weeks ago. No doubt she’d be as horrified as Sherie if she knew where her little soldier had spent the night. Fay gave a small chuckle to herself as she pressed the button to take the roof down on her red Mazda MX5, liking the feel of the cold air on her face as she reversed out of her driveway and headed along the Eastern Esplanade. The sea was grey and choppy today, but the sun was bright.
Fay turned into Rectory Road and down through Nelson Place to Albion Street, looking at the restaurants and cafes that now lined the bottom of Broadstairs, so many more than when she’d been a child. She swung the car past Costa Coffee, wrinkling her nose in disapproval – she had banked there when it was still Barclays! – and up York Street, headed for the Pysons Road Industrial Estate where Sternhouse Removals had its home.
She put her foot down as she left the last roundabout, finding the wind whipping through her hair exhilarating. It was a lovely cold, sharp day. She would have liked to have reason to take the car for a belt up the motorway but the office called. Reluctantly she slowed down and turned onto the estate following the winding road round until her empire stood before her.
She felt the small rush of pleasure and achievement she got every time she saw the row of distinctive brown and orange lorries, parked outside the small glass and steel reception area with the huge storage facility stretching behind it. The business had been here for nearly fifty years – but it had tripled in size since she’d taken over.
‘Morning Ma’am!’ A young man in a dark brown