Joe and Clara’s Christmas Countdown. Katey Lovell
Sunday, June 25th 2017
The beauty of a signature scent is also its danger. Everyone associates it with you. And Bella’s overbearing perfume had clung to Dean’s clothes the way a baby being left for the first time clings desperately to its mother.
Clara had been suspicious for months, but her stomach still churned as she told the tale. It felt like history repeating itself. ‘When I confronted him about it he didn’t lie. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. No one wants to be lied to, but no one wants to feel replaceable either, do they?’
‘He’s a scumbag,’ Deirdre replied. ‘A complete and utter scumbag. Cheating on you with his masseuse? It’s such a cliché. Especially after you introduced them.’ She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘I said it all along, he’s got no class, that one.’
‘Physio,’ Clara corrected absentmindedly, before finding herself adding, ‘He’s not a bad person’. Why she was defending Dean to her boss when she’d spent the previous night alternating between hurling abuse at him and crying for the relationship they’d once had, she couldn’t say. Things hadn’t been perfect for a long time – Dean had seemed distant, and Clara herself had been exhausted, carrying the pressures of work home with her – but why Bella? Clara couldn’t see the attraction.
‘He sure as hell isn’t a good one. He told you he was having a sports massage when all the time he was having a shag! It’s shameless. You should sell your story to the press. I can see the headline now, “Rovers player in Physio Romp”. I’m sure there’d be some money in it for you,’ she added, with a worldly-wise nod of her head.
If it wasn’t so tragic, Clara would have laughed. ‘I don’t think so. A former Man United youth teamer, who now plays semi-professionally for the local team? There’s no story in that.’
Deirdre was having none of it. ‘There’s always the women’s magazines. They’d be all over this. There was a double-page spread in one about a woman who wanted to marry her cat. Her cat! Your story busts that crap right out of the water.’
‘Why did you read it if it was crap?’ Clara asked, tongue firmly in her cheek. She knew full well how much Deirdre loved the weekly women’s magazines. She had a stash of them secretly shoved in her desk drawer.
‘I was at the hairdresser’s this morning,’ she replied haughtily, patting her softly permed locks to plump up the fresh waves. ‘It was practically thrust into my hands as I was sat under the lamps.’
‘Your hair looks good,’ Clara observed, noticing her boss’s hair had also turned a soft shade of ash blonde rather than its usual salt-and-pepper flecks.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Deirdre smiled with pride. ‘Hey, maybe you should go for a new look too. Reinvent yourself. It might help you get over Dean.’
‘It’ll take more than a new hairdo to do that. I’m beginning to think humans aren’t cut out for monogamy. I should have learned from Mum’s mistakes.’
‘Not all men are dirty dogs.’
‘Dean is, though. And my dad was too.’ An acrid taste filled Clara’s mouth.
‘I still can’t believe Dean actually thought he’d get away with cheating on you right under your nose.’
‘The worst part is knowing I’m going to have to see her again. She helps our next-door neighbour with the exercises for her arthritis. Her and her perfume will be getting right up my nose.’
Deirdre laughed. ‘Good one. Nice to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour.’
‘If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.’
‘And you’re sure you’ll be up to speaking in front of everyone tonight?’
Clara hoped so – the kids at the youth club had been talking about the talent show for weeks. They’d been diligently practising their dance routines and comedy sketches. One ambitious twelve-year-old had been keen to juggle knives whilst riding his unicycle until Deirdre had put a stop to it on health and safety grounds. He was reluctantly settling for using bean bags instead of blades.
‘Yep, I’ve set the chairs out for the audience and the microphone’s rigged up. I’ve taken the iPod dock through for any acts that need music and prepared a welcome speech for the parents. Oh, and I’ve got a bucket ready for collecting donations. Hopefully it’ll get people putting their hands in their pockets.’
‘As long as they take them out again with a fistful of notes,’ Deirdre said with a sigh. ‘The waiting list keeps on growing. What annoys me the most is that we’ve got the space, but can’t take any more kids on unless we employ more staff. Fat chance of that, looking at the finances.’
‘It’s tough times for everyone,’ Clara pointed out. ‘Even the big charities are struggling. But things will work out in the end. They always do.’
‘Are you talking about the staffing issue or are you back to talking about relationships?’
‘Staff,’ Clara said firmly.
Deirdre tutted. ‘It’s such a shame. A lovely girl like you shouldn’t be sat on the shelf.’
‘I’m twenty-seven and split up with my fiancé yesterday. That’s hardly on the shelf.’
‘Still, you don’t want to be on your own too long,’ Deirdre replied. ‘I’m sure we can find you a nice young man who treats you well and keeps his pants on around other women.’
‘Deirdre!’
A cheeky glint sparkled in the older woman’s eyes. ‘Who knows, maybe there’ll be someone at the talent show to put a spring in your step.’
‘Don’t start,’ Clara warned. ‘I don’t need a man.’
‘Oh, I know you don’t need one,’ Deirdre replied. ‘But everyone enjoys a good seeing to once in a while, don’t they?’
Clara wasn’t sure how to reply to that. Instead, she nodded, smiled and made her way to the youth club’s main hall. She’d fiddle with the speakers again, double check they were set up properly. She’d go and unblock the sink in the boy’s loos that was forever emitting an eggy odour. Anything rather than stay here, because she sure to goodness didn’t want to listen to her boss discussing the ins and outs, quite literally, of her sex life.
* * *
Clara peeped from behind the red velvet curtain that flanked the stage.
There was quite a crowd gathering in the hall. The additional emergency chairs that were usually stacked high in the broom cupboard and only brought out on rare occasions had been filled, and it looked as though it was standing room only at the back.
Her stomach fluttered at the prospect of welcoming the parents. Despite her apparent confident demeanour, Clara had never been a natural when it came to public speaking. She put it down to the time she fluffed her line in the nativity play at infant school. Her mum had tried to assure her that no one had noticed, but Clara hadn’t believed her then and she certainly didn’t believe her now. She’d been dressed head to toe in white, with cotton-wool balls sewn over the t-shirt to make it obvious to everyone she was a sheep, yet when it reached her turn to take centre stage, Clara had panicked. The only thing she’d managed to say was ‘moo’. A mooing sheep. No wonder everyone had laughed.
But there’d be