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www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
THIS is it, then, is it? This is all I’ve got to show for my life. Apart from droopy boobs. This is what it all comes down to. Me, the computer, and a medical diagnosis that says that I must stop being self-pitying and accept that I am past sell-by-date! I must conquer unattractive and immature desire to possess Madonna-style bod and a stomach washboard-flat enough to flaunt navel stud.
That’s one of the reasons I am keeping this diary. As a form of therapy. On the advice of the personal, one-to-one life-changing session I had with one of the universe’s top life-coaches (a birthday present from trendy stepsister who works in Public Relations—well, it was more of a consolation present, really.) The one-to-one session was a ten-minute phone call and an impossible-to-fill-in questionnaire which came in the post and which I thought was junk mail. Luckily managed to rescue it from the rubbish before Mr Russell—that’s the elderly pensioner who lives two doors down—dumped his dog’s poop-a-scoop in my wheelie bin.
Anyway, one of the things life-coach instructed me to do was keep a diary, so that I could write down all thoughts and feelings and thus find out hidden meaning behind own self-destructive tendencies—like eating chocolates and agonising over non-husband’s opinion that boobs are saggy when I should be going to gym and should also be doing helpful things in community, like busybody neighbour from three up who patrols local park counting number of discarded used condoms.
I have always been a sucker for a bit of self-indulgence, which is probably why I am currently two stone overweight—well, actually it’s only one stone ten pounds now, but scales haven’t been reliable ever since they were used under broken leg of late mother-in-law’s commode.
So here I am, aged fifty-one, miserable, moody and menopausal.
Hard to believe that five weeks ago I was congratulating myself on how serene, successful and satisfying own life was. But that was before daughter sent me a birthday card which read ‘Happy Easter’; son rang from university to say he was putting off taking his finals because he wanted to ‘chill out’ for a year or two first. Oh and—almost forgot—before my husband came home too late to take me out for the celebratory dinner I’d booked at Chez Luigi’s (Luigi is Italian, but Roux Brothers-trained, and he’s very good about Derek only ordering one starter and one sweet, asking for two sets of cutlery and then complaining about the small portions).
I was in bed, eating the last of the Christmas chocolates—the soft cream centres which I really hate and always leave until I am really desperate—wrapped in typical husbandly Christmas present of flannelette nightdress big enough to go round myself twice. Husband had written tender little note with the present, saying he thought it would be large enough to hide gross sight of droopy boobs.
(Husband has definitely got ‘from Mars’ sense of humour and thought it very funny to send self birthday card showing hideous old hag lifting skirt to reveal boobs down to knees, having written inside that the card reminded him of me.)
Anyway, husband walked in wearing oversize shiny nylon trousers that he thinks make him look trendy but in reality make him look like a chimpanzee. I suppose it’s not husband’s fault, though, that he has short legs and big stomach.
Husband’s earlobe was still weeping from the new earring he had put in. His tattoo was finally scabbing over and his hair finally beginning to grow again after Beckham haircut that went wrong. Husband said he’d got something to tell me. Thought it was going to be a joke. Well, in a way it was.
He said that we didn’t have anything in common any more. This is a complete lie. What about our huge mortgage and the set of semi-antique chairs his mother gave us, two with wonky legs, and one with ‘Digger loves Jimmy’ scratched on it? (Jimmy was his uncle. He never married.) Not to mention the twenty-seven years of marriage and the two children we produced?
But what do twenty-seven years of unwanted memories and two children mean to a man who’s head over heels in lust with a raving nymphomaniac of a twenty-something-year-old woman called Cheree (it was Sheryl, but she changed it) with dyed blonde hair and enormous inflated breasts?
My own best friend, Jacki (who knocked the ‘e’ off the end at the same time as she ‘lost’ years off her age and ‘found’ herself in the Gambia with some toyboy who made her realise what life was really all about), says I could have boobs lifted, but I can’t see the point since no one else but me is ever going to see them again. Luckily my own eyesight isn’t what it was!
Jacki’s divorced now. She loves it. She got to keep the house, the car, and David’s money! But I think that must have had something to do with the affair she was having with their accountant.
Derek—that’s my own husband—well, was my husband—is now rushing through the divorce because he doesn’t want to leave any messy ends when he and Cheree leave the country and she’s concerned that if he dies whilst they’re away I will inherit everything. (She must mean all his debts, because Derek swears there isn’t any money). Derek told me that he and Cheree were going to sail round the world together and that he’d already sold the business—that alone was a shock ’cos only the previous week he’d been moaning that the business was losing so much money he’d be lucky to give it away!
And the money it was losing wasn’t really ours—not strictly speaking! It was the money the building society had given us and in exchange we had given them the deeds to our previously almost-paid-for house—the only asset we had apart from the pension which Derek cashed in early to put into the business.
Derek was originally a salesman but then had brainwave to set up own business as a ‘Disenfranchised Refrigeration Unit Relocation and Rehabilitation Consultant’. No, I haven’t a clue what it means either—but it must have something to do with old fridges since our garage was full of them until they got taken away at dead of night.
I just hope that husband remembers to tell Cheree to pack his anti-seasickness tablets—he was once terribly ill on the channel ferry. It was just as well that the ferry hadn’t actually left the harbour at the time, because if it had heaven knows what might have happened. It was a bit embarrassing when they had to unload all the cars because ours was first on. We’d missed the earlier ferry because Derek hadn’t tied the luggage rack on roof securely enough. The cases had fallen off, and so we’d had to wait for the next one. Anyway, I am sure Derek was being unfair when he said that those dents in the car were put there deliberately by other happy holidaymakers.
Of course Cheree won’t have much to pack. For a start she only wears bikini bottoms and not tops, on account of fabric rubbing on her very sensitive nipples. (Husband told me about her little problem—well, not so little, really. He told me last year, when he took her to a conference in Brighton, and I saw them both on television lying on the beach. Apparently that was why he’d been rubbing cream into her nipples. He didn’t want her suing him for employer negligence on health grounds.)
I suppose I knew then, really, but I told myself it was just a phase he was going through and that we were both too adult and sensible to throw away a marriage as solid as ours. Jacki said at the time that it was no wonder Cheree had had her boobs inflated. At least now they stuck out as far as her teeth.
For the first week after Derek told me THE NEWS I didn’t do anything. Well, there wasn’t anything I could do, really. And then the estate agent arrived and said that the house should sell pretty easily but that it was a pity it wasn’t in better decorative order. No one wants plum-coloured bathroom suites any more. I told Derek that when we bought them.
We were doing up this large Victorian house we’d bought for a song—well, not so much a song as a whole opera—when we found out about rotten floorboards and roof timbers. He said the plum bathroom suites were a bargain and wouldn’t show the dirt. His mother said he was probably thinking about his grandparents. Apparently they kept coal in their bath!
But then the estate agent mentioned his fees, and Derek blew a fuse and said he would sell house himself. Why pay greedy, unprincipled rogue of agent when an up-market, lovingly restored des-res like ours, in a prestigious part of town, would have people queuing up to take it off our hands?
Agent pointed out that by law you’re not allowed now to lie about property. Derek went red in the face and said it hadn’t stopped them when we had bought the house through the same estate agency. Agent stopped him to ask if had eradicated all woodworm and replaced floorboards.
After agent had gone, Derek said I should never have admitted that we had not, and that he couldn’t afford to have the asking price reduced by £50,000. He said that I was deliberately trying to make things difficult for him and was behaving like total cow, just as Cheree had said I would.
Anyway, agent left after Derek refused to sign form declaring no problems with neighbours! He couldn’t sign it, really—not when whole street knows that family five down is so incensed with Derek parking his old banger—sorry, company car—outside their house so that he wouldn’t lower the tone of our house that they took all wheels off the car one night and put it up on bricks. They would have had it towed away, but scrap dealer didn’t want it!
Our house now has homemade ‘For Sale’ sign leaning drunkenly in front garden, but so far there haven’t been any viewers apart from man from council wanting to know if Derek has planning permission for searchlight he put up outside to deter would-be thieves (and the tomcat from next door).
Of course I had to ring Derek to tell him about son’s plans. Obviously Derek has more fatherly concern than previously evident as he came straight round! His mobile rang when he arrived—it plays the opening bars of ‘We are Sailing’.
Derek said son was old enough to make his own decisions and that he couldn’t afford to keep him at university any longer anyway. Derek also asked if anyone had made an offer on the house. He said there should be enough equity in it after we’ve paid off the mortgage for me to buy myself a little flat—apparently property’s v. cheap in certain parts of country and no need really for me to greedily take up so much space in such an expensive part. Also pointed out that if I had got a job all those years ago, when he asked me to, I would be in a much better position today to take care of myself financially. I didn’t know just what a strain he had found it supporting me.
Cheree earns a very good salary, he added.
Since he employs her, I suppose he must be right. However, I did remind him that the reason I could not work was that I took care of his incontinent, infirm mother for ten years.
Husband replied that at least Mother had pension, and also money from sale of her own house, to contribute to the household.
Felt like reminding him that his mother gambled away all her pension playing bingo until she was banned from local old folks’ club for almost causing an affair—yes, we thought she’d made a mistake at first, and it should have been affray, but turned out she was right. She had tried to steal husband off another woman. Mother-in-law claimed hadn’t tried to steal at all, but had won so much from other woman that she had been forced to put up husband as collateral.
Husband said we needed to make sure we get a quick sale because he and Cheree wanted to spend the winter in the Caribbean—and besides, the building society were pressing for overdue mortgage payments. Husband also v. kindly said he had decided to put house in my name—if I would just sign form agreeing to hand over any equity in sale to him. Said I would think about it.
CHAPTER TWO
SPENT second week sorting out the contents of the attic, in between bouts of tears and eating chocolate.
That was when stepsister rang. We’ve always had challenging relationship with one another. After all, her mother pinched my father from my mother… She got to live with them whilst I had to stay with my mother—who, not having my father to embrace any longer, embraced religion instead. Well, if you call witches’ spells and naked dancing round bonfires religion.
Tara, that’s my stepsister, was sent to St Hilda’s Private School for Girls!
She had a gold watch for her thirteenth birthday and ice skates! My mother wanted to give me a toad, and a book on how to cast spells.
My mother was always ahead of her time. And it wasn’t her fault that the local council refused to see the benefit of her plan to hold parties to recruit new witches. They said that all the naked dancing was causing a nuisance and that people were complaining. And anyway, it was a definite health hazard on account of bare feet touching uncleansed ground of local park. Mother did an interview for local paper, but due to confusion at printers, the interview was printed under name of local v. moral councillor. Councillor was totally outraged when my mother was elected in her place.
Now Mum lives in California, with her fourth husband. I don’t hear from her very much.
Derek never really approved of her. His own parents were very traditional and old-fashioned. We only found out about his father liking to dress up in women’s clothes after he died. He had written in his will that the wanted to be buried in his favourite evening dress. Of course Derek’s mother pretended that it was just a joke, and in the end he was buried in his suit.
Anyway, Tara has her own PR company. She’s never married. For every decade she’s past she’s had another piece of plastic surgery—which is why at fifty she looks thirty, but in a tight, shiny, this-skin-is-killing-me sort of way.
Still, like I said, she caught me at a bad moment. I’d just found the box containing our wedding photographs and cards from Derek which I’d kept!
Had forgotten I was once so sentimental and optimistic! Found the one he sent me when we got engaged, with a rude poem in it which he’d promised to put into practice. Well, it wasn’t his fault that the rugby team decided to walk home down lovers’ lane that night. And at least they had the decency to lift the car back onto the road again afterwards.
It was a bit embarrassing, though, because the car belonged to his father, and the next day, when he went to pick up his boss from the station, Derek’s father opened the glove compartment to give his boss a tissue and handed him my knickers by mistake.
Of course we had to get married after that. Well, you did in those days, didn’t you?
It was the seventies. The sexual revolution might have overwhelmed the moral barricades of the mothers of London’s teenagers. But for us ‘oop North’, believe you me, Victorian ethics still ruled!
Anyway, back to my stepsister’s phone call this week. There I was sobbing, feeling all emotional and crying into the special-price low-fat vanilla ice-cream that was all I could find in the freezer to come anywhere close to self indulgence, when the phone rang. Of course I had to tell her what had happened!
Straight away she said she knew just the thing to get me back on track and turn my whole life around. She said that it had saved her sanity when she had been so stressed out about breaking her nails just before she had to collect the winning contestant from Kidnapped to take to TV Awards Ceremony!
(Kidnapped was a groundbreaking new TV programme where a specially chosen group of contestants had to go out and kidnap someone and the viewers had to give them marks on how real they made it. This contestant had done so well that the person being kidnapped had a heart attack from shock on screen and had to be resuscitated by actors from the accident and emergency soap in next studio.)
Tara said she would ‘treat me’, because this life-coach was just so in demand she charged the earth and that usually she wouldn’t be seen dead coaching anyone who wasn’t someone…
I wasn’t sure.
I mean, a life-coach…just what does that mean?
Jacki and my other friend Rosie were well impressed when I told them!
Jacki did say, though, that she thought I’d have got more benefit from a night with a sexy stud escort!
One of her friends had been given one as a surprise fortieth birthday present by her girlfriends. And then to make it really special they’d had the whole thing videoed. Unfortunately, though, there’d been some crossed wires, and the video had got played at her fortieth birthday party. Her husband said that with a backside like hers she should have been ashamed to have it publicly displayed like that.
Anyway, she’s divorced now, and she’s running an agency that finds out if your husband is likely to be unfaithful by getting some stunning-looking girl to try to seduce him. So far the score is Stunning-looking Girls 100, Husbands 0! Surprise. Surprise.
So the life-coach rang the afternoon I’d just spent comfort-reading my old Georgette Heyer books. Where, oh, where are the Heyer men right now when I could do with one? Dangerous, passionate. And desperately determined to ravish me. That would show Derek!
Okay, okay, I know. That is so shallow. But then I am shallow!
Speaking of sexy, gorgeous-looking men, I have just seen the new owner of house at end of street. The house the poshest in the area—huge garden, detached and completely refurbished by local interior designer who once appeared on TV designer programme.
Her clients, the previous owners, complained that they hated what she’d done and that they couldn’t understand how undyed calico curtains for their drawing room could possibly have cost £5,000 when anyone could buy the same fabric down the market for 30p a metre! It was all sorted out amicably in end, when designer explained that their calico was special import and totally exclusive ’cos was made in a unique way.
Never liked to tell neighbour that I had seen the labels from the bales of cloth delivered when they were away and Derek went scavenging in their skip. (Derek said it was totally neighbourly act since he was concerned that their builders might try to remove and sell on irreplaceable period features, such as the Victorian fireplace he bought off them for a mere £500.) Label on cloth said quite definitely that fabric was from Pakistan and 10p per metre.
Derek never said anything. Well, he was in shock for months afterwards once he discovered that the builder was flogging fireplaces just like ours at a local car boot sale for £50.
Anyway, trendy couple who owned house have gone to live on remote island where will be no contamination from modern living. (Actually, have heard that truth is he lost his job and child has been expelled from school for knowing more than teacher.)
New owner was getting out of sleek, expensive-looking black car when he walked past this morning. Furniture van was pulling up outside.
Of course didn’t want to make curiosity obvious, so just took a quick glance.
New neighbour is male—very much so—sexy broad shoulders, shown off in white tee shirt that revealed even sexier athletic-type flat stomach. Thick dark hair, just tinged with grey, gorgeous super-sexy silver-grey eyes and thick black eyelashes!
In addition to immaculate white tee shirt he was wearing well-cut chinos and clean shoes—and no wedding ring! Not that I was paying too much attention. (Not much!) Had to put down bags of supermarket shopping which I was carrying ’cos Derek has taken car.
However, panicked when new neighbour saw me and started to walk over. In rush to get away unobtrusively I forgot how much I had pushed into flimsy plastic shopping bags. Served me right that pack of Vitamins for the Older Woman fell out right in front of him.
Quite proud of my quick recovery, though, when I claimed vitamins were for elderly friend!
Image spoiled when demon skateboarding sons of family from five down skated past and shouted, ‘Move it, Grandma!’
Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and life-coach has said I must always look for positive in everything, so just as well that I was wrapped up against cold in face-muffling scarf and old coat!
Apparently you have to really work at this life-coaching stuff… Life-coach has given me all sorts of exercises to do. Like this one:
Imagine yourself in twenty years’ time. Where do you want to be? Who do you want to be?
Twenty years’ time! Will be seventy-one! OHMYGOD!
Immediately feel depressed and pervy for having spent rest of day fantasising about sexy new neighbour, mentally imagining him in Georgette Heyer hero mode, rescuing me from horrid wicked Sir Jasper type and clasping my delicate, fragile frame in strong male arms…
Anyway, I’d rather imagine myself twenty years ago… Two stone lighter, thicker hair, a belly like a supermodel’s… So okay, maybe I am exaggerating slightly…
Let’s see—in twenty years’ time I want to be like Tina Turner! As she is now!
Think of ten things you want to achieve before you reach your next decade birthday!
Think challenging!! Exciting!!! Innovative!!!!
Oh, yeah! Like what?
In a fit of irritation, reach for notepad and start to write down most implausible things I can think of!
• Learn to inline skate
• Be swept off feet by hero strikingly similar to new sexy neighbour at No. 14, just like in Georgette Heyer’s books!
• Be able to make melt-in-mouth pastry like smug busybody neighbour from three up
• Be able to look so sexy in quick-release thong and see-thru bra that no one cares about pastry!
• Learn to salsa
• Be picked as salsa partner by sexy new neighbour for very private one-to-one lessons
• Own bright red convertible with rude private number
• Discover sexy new neighbour is madly in love with self
• Discover boobs have miraculously un-drooped
• Discover husband has secret prescription for Viagra and burn it!
I read list and find I have the number I need. Well, I think I will forget about pastry-making—and husband!
Look further down list of life-coach’s bossy instructions:
And then think of ten more!
Then write down ten things you like about yourself!
Er…
Good sense of humour—even if Derek always complains that I never laugh at his jokes. Apparently Cheree laughs like a hyena at them—Jacki says that she looks like one as well!
Good friend—okay, so I didn’t tell Rosie when my son said that Rosie’s schoolteacher niece was giving boys at school hands-on sex education lessons. But how was I to know exactly what he meant? I was as shocked as everyone else when news broke in the papers that she had run away with twelve-year-old pupil she was supposed to be giving extra after-school coaching? Anyway, all the fuss has died down now, and Rosie’s niece has moved to another part of the country. She’s got a job there teaching at an all-boys boarding school.