Chapter Two
Beyond the spits of rain that flecked the kitchen window, night still clung to the dying weekend and held off Monday's mad rituals, shrouding the estate with a gloomy ambience like that generated by outnumbered men stuck in a flooding trench. Day, like an enemy, was inexorably creeping up.
Cathy's head was achy and thick, as if the sandman had clubbed her to sleep with the bottle she'd emptied of red wine. Usually, in such circumstances, and in order to get going, she plucked some motivational adage from the gospel of colloquialisms - its bite-sized tips and easily-digestible slices of wisdom formed the standard main course of so many conversations with so many acquaintances. Why, even her glossy magazines chipped in and preached the absolute value of Top Ten Tips. It just took a willing suspension of disbelief to bend such clichés into laws to live by, easy enough when you're rushed, amongst other things.
But this wasn't any Monday morning, and it seemed too much effort for Cathy to overcome herself. She slouched over a hot, sugary coffee absently wishing to be gently wrapped in the peace of the house all day. She groaned; it was no good. Excuses might lead to prying questions and, worse luck, she couldn't afford to phone in sick. Anyway, sleepy-eyed, grumbling siblings would soon be rising. The peace wouldn't last. It was keeping busy that would bring on her much anticipated moment. Click; her engine reluctantly started to turn over.
Michael had been the first thing on Cathy's waking mind and she'd panicked, clumsily reaching out to silence her alarm and knocking it to the floor where it screeched like a bratty whistleblower. Shut up! She snatched its plug from the socket. Her heart was pounding. Had she dreamt of her lover and spilled her secret by unconsciously responding to his tender praise? She flicked her bedside light on. Her husband's side of the bed was empty. He had gone. Her new life beckoned. She experienced a thrilling glow that numbed the symptoms of last night's excesses as if restorative fairy dust had permeated her skin. Oh, Michael!
For too long they had been too frightened to join hands, close their eyes and leap over the icy, haunting abyss of dead relationships. But why? Their immeasurable love would surely carry them any distance! They'd soar to the other side, where everlasting togetherness is embraced and… What? Cathy didn't know because she'd never been. Their wonderful adventure was just beginning. Oh, she knew that sounded like she'd read too many romantic novels and seen too many sentimental films, but isn't it possible to be the heroine of your own life? Those who chase dreams possess the power! Look at Alicia's smarting, indomitable pride after her dreams were ridiculed! Alicia had been willing to push her own mother over the edge, not physically, of course, but emotionally, spiritually… How vile! How courageous! And now, because of Alicia, she was freefalling towards Michael's arms. Only would he catch her? Last night, on her fourth glass of red wine, Cathy had been tormented by doubts. The image she'd created like a final, dramatic movie scene in which she fell into a safe, chivalrous clinch seemed positively ludicrous. And did she and Michael want everything to so drastically change? Hadn't their secret been a mutually convenient way of stirring up the excitement that made life worth living? Did they really love each other? What is love, anyway? Maybe the problem was that Cathy wasn't used to losing control. Over the years she'd so subtly used her razzle-dazzle that she wasn't nearly as powerless as many of the women she knew. No man would ever destroy her self-confidence and turn her into a drudge. And that was why Michael was special. He built her up. Made it possible for her to cherish fantastic aspirations.
Cathy had put Titanic - her favourite movie - into the DVD player and poured another large wine. It was bliss to watch it without Ian's snide remarks. The rarity of such love is the irrepressible attraction! Doesn't that explain why, generation after generation, the very best writers had made it their theme? For they seemed to have done as far as she could tell. Unthinkingly, Cathy stroked the cool, smooth screen of her Kindle resting on the sofa's arm; the unfolding plot of real life had left her unable to concentrate on the words of fictional love, no matter how gripping and sensational the story. Something had happened to her husband on pages she'd never read and which were most probably unwritten. Ian no longer understood his own heart let alone hers. And in her heart she knew she deserved better…
'Oh!' Cathy breathlessly exclaimed when the shower's blast of hot, steaming water shocked and reddened her skin. She adjusted the balance of hot and cold and the cooler, invigorating spray swept away the depressed, sickly sleepiness that had reasserted itself. Lathering herself from her toes to her neck with lavender-perfumed gel, she tried to envision Michael's reaction when he learned that her beauty belonged to him, and him alone. The sleek, revealing black number she'd trailed round the nearby city's malls yesterday afternoon to find would bewitch him. Wouldn't it? Only at her tempting best could she turn her plans into reality. As Cathy rubbed herself down with the fluffy white towel, the plughole gurgled and retched. Ian had never got round to cleaning the blocked drain. She'd get some of that caustic stuff from town to pour down it.
Tiptoeing down the stairs so as to not disturb Alicia and Davie, it dawned on Cathy that she should think better of Michael, and the fact that she was edgy… Damn. Everything's such a headache! She really shouldn't drink on a night before the early shift; isn't there time to relax on the weekend before afternoons? No matter what she thought of Ian, it was still a stressful time. She should avoid anything that might further unsettle her until she adapted to such a huge change. They'd been married for eighteen years, and she'd been a teen scarcely older than Alicia, which is and was far too young to tie the knot. Her wedding day had been grand, nevertheless, and she'd revere its memory even if nearly everything that had followed needed erasing. Should a little self-deception be required to preserve the virginal, fairytale white of her big day in a ye olde church, then so be it. It happens but once in a girl's life. Fail to select the right paints, canvas and material, and the bigger picture - the one you want to see - will always be sullied.
Cathy had hardly spoken to Alicia since last week, the day Ian left. Yet perhaps she should be grudgingly thankful; her daughter's ill-natured pride had ironically done her the finest of turns. As long as everything worked out. Despite Alicia's defective personality - oh, that's too cruel - the kids were no longer such a responsibility. Alicia was making a go of it at college: Davie was sailing through the last year of school. Michael might even be a better role model than Ian, who'd put food on the table while never really being there for the kids. It could work out.
Unshaven, reeking of whiskey, Ian had called two days ago - Friday afternoon, when Alicia and Davie were out - to stuff his clothes and a few other belongings into the scruffy, oversized sports bag he'd so embarrassingly insisted on using to pack his clothes for family holidays. From Portugal and across the Mediterranean to Turkey, and then beyond, he'd shown Cathy up. In fact, his surly, drunken visit had perfectly illustrated his lack of style. She hadn't expected him to chat wistfully about the way things had turned out, but he could have asked about the kids' welfare rather than tripping up at the top of the stairs. Luckily for him, he'd fallen onto his face rather than crashed down to the hall.
'Are you going to arrange to see the kids?' she'd called to him, dumping a pair of odd socks he hadn't wanted into the wheelie bin at the same moment he dropped his bag of possessions into the boot of his silver Mondeo. His brother, Dan, was sitting in the driving seat, nodding to Iron Maiden, pretending that he hadn't seen her. They could both run to the hills for all she cared! That Ian wasn't drink driving at least indicated some decency survived, she supposed, however meagre it was in quantity.
On hearing his wife's question, Ian had glanced over his shoulder, muttered something, and staggered to the passenger door, which he had difficulty opening without Dan's help from inside. Cathy could understand Ian being angry with Alicia, but what had Davie done? She'd have rich pickings for her solicitor if her fool husband didn't sober up. Why had she thrown away so many years?
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Alicia had known about her mother's relationship with Michael almost as soon as its first buds opened. Sick of the restriction of a few hours in impersonal hotel rooms, Cathy had invited Michael to a candlelit meal at home one evening when Ian was working overtime up to midnight, Davie had arranged to go to the cinema, and Alicia was partying. Thinking you can't take too many precautions, Cathy had granted permission for the kids to sleepover at friends' places. How could she have foreseen that Alicia would tearfully explode when a rival for a boy's attention jealously criticised her dress? So wrapped up under her quilt, Cathy only became aware of her daughter's homecoming when she thumped on the bedroom door just as Michael's body jerked towards a climax. Oh my god, the memory made Cathy shudder! 'Mum, who's in there?' Alicia had demanded to know. 'Dad's at work!' Michael's face froze in ecstatic horror and Cathy shimmied her hips, unhooked the two-backed beast and, as his seed spilled onto the sheets, tumbled out of bed stretching for her dressing gown on the floor. Red-faced, her elbow sore, Cathy opened the door just wide enough to peek out. 'There's only me, darling. I was tired and decided I needed some extra beauty sleep.'
'I heard someone!'
'There isn't…'
'You liar!' Alicia stomped down the stairs. 'I'm telling Dad!' she hollered. 'Just wait while he gets in!'
Cathy buckled under her shame and fell against her closed bedroom door, her eyes shut tight, her arms outstretched like she'd been hoisted onto a crucifix. 'Oh, oh, oh,' she agonisingly moaned.
'Let's not be rash,' Michael said in a low, steady voice. Though flushed from his endeavours, he had regained his typical unwavering composure and pulled on his grey suit with astonishing promptness. His back straight, his chin high, he fastened his tie aided by Cathy's full-length mirror beside her antique chest of drawers. Michael wore business suits for their dates so not to arouse his wife's suspicions, besides, on the occasion he'd turned up casually dressed, his ordinariness had disappointed Cathy, try as she had to hide it. When Michael wasn't around she found it difficult to describe his face, which only confirmed it was the man and not his looks that matters. Wasn't useless Ian handsome? Cathy's eyes blinked open and she watched Michael in the mirror. Goblin green eyes, slightly snout-like hooter, thin lips and a grey, fast-receding hairline; he was plain ugly. Yet his finely tailored suits symbolised power and culture, the things that lifted him above the crowd. 'Let's go and see what we can do. After you get dressed.'
'Yes.' Cathy got off her crucifix and obediently picked her black French knickers from the polished floorboards.
Prostrate on a sofa, Alicia refused to acknowledge her mother's soft entreaties and stared up at the ceiling. In her retro, floral party dress she looked like a broken china doll that a morbid little mummy had laid out in an impromptu, homely chapel of rest. 'She's traumatised, Michael. What have we done? My poor baby.'
'No!' Alicia squealed and turned over, face-down, when Cathy tried to caress her cheeks.
Cathy looked close to screaming as she placed her hands on her own cheeks.
'I deeply wish this had never happened, Alicia,' Michael mellifluously apologised, going down on one knee. 'Your mother and I have been very good friends for a long time and tonight - and only tonight - we made a mistake. It's my fault. I wouldn't listen. If only I could recompense you for the upset I've caused.'
Alicia flipped from her belly to her back and eyed him severely, hatefully.
'Perhaps I'd better leave.' Michael got to his feet, his knees creaking, and sombrely said to Cathy, 'I'll show myself out.'
'Wait!' Alicia was staring at his shoes in wonder. 'Don't go yet.'
'Alicia, are you all right?' Why did her girl stare at Michael's laces? Had she taken a funny turn and was considering stringing… No! Unthinkable! 'Answer me, Alicia. What is it?'
'You want me to stay?' Michael's faint smile hinted at some kind of recognition.
'You've nice shoes.'
'Thank you.' His smile slowly broadened, his eyes twinkling.
'What the blazes? Alicia, I said, are you all right?'
'I won't say a word if you buy me all - and I mean all - those clothes I showed my mum online the other day.'
'That's blackmail, lady!'
'Mum, he wants to recompense me. Didn't you hear?'
'He didn't mean like that! It's immoral!'
'Hark who's talking!' Alicia jolted upright. 'I suppose you'll try to tell me that Dad married you in the house of God so you could shag Michael in his bed while he's at work.'
'Don't talk like that. Please.'
'Oh, Michael! Yes, Michael!' Alicia mocked the passion that had rocked the house as she'd entered. 'Harder! Harder!'
'How dare you?'
'I dare tell Dad, trust me.'
'You'll be in for it, young lady.'
'I will? Huh, and I suppose you'll be congratulated.'
Michael coughed into his hand. 'Your girl has a point,' he murmured, 'not very well presented, but it is a point.'
'Are you suggesting that we pay my daughter off?'
'I'm saying that we've made this mistake just once.' He winked on Alicia's blind side. 'Should everybody suffer because of one misdemeanour? Now, Alicia is clearly upset. A gift might make her feel better.' Michael pulled his black leather wallet from his trouser pocket. 'How much do you need? It is Alicia, isn't it?'
'At least, erm,' - her eyes greedily marvelled at the wad poking out of his wallet - 'well, four hundred.'
'I think I can accommodate that,' Michael smiled, unfazed, already counting out twenty pound notes. '…Two hundred and eighty, three hundred, three hundred and twenty. I'll give the rest to your mother by Saturday. Happy shopping.'
'Michael, this is not only wrong, it's such a risk.'
'It isn't any risk at all.' Alicia's eyes lit up as she went through the wad like a youngster with her first flipbook. 'If I take this money, I'll be just as guilty in Dad's eyes. So I won't say a word.'
'It's not right!'
'So you'd like Dad to find out?'
'No, but, Alicia, come on, see…' What should she see? That her mother's a trollop? Cathy's lip trembled.
'We don't always like the most necessary deals we make,' Michael said, humbly, like he'd been scorched by the world many times over.
'Just like I don't like coming home and listening to that grunting and groaning.' Alicia reached for the TV remote. 'Now leave me in peace so I can get over it!'
'As you wish,' said Michael, turning. 'Goodbye.' Cathy followed him out, glancing disbelievingly at her daughter.
At the back door in the kitchen, Cathy demanded to know, 'What sort of parent - what sort of people - bribe a teenage girl?'
'Pragmatic lovers,' Michael quietly replied, looking to the floor.
'You don't mean to say you think we're going to carry this on?' Cathy's incredulity cut through the air and she winced, thinking that Alicia must have heard. 'It's impossible,' she violently whispered.
'I can't stand to lose you.' Michael took Cathy's hand and raised it to his lips. 'Darling, we can get through this.'
'Just go!' Cathy snatched away her hand and averted her gaze. The joint of beef was still roasting in the oven.
'I'll be in touch.'
'Michael! Go!'
'I'll phone a cab from the pub down the way to the car park, then. Cheerio, my cherub.'
The second the door closed behind Michael, Alicia ran out of the living room and up the stairs to her bedroom. Her sobs could be heard for an hour, maybe more, before she either settled somewhat or fell asleep.
Tears aside, perhaps Alicia had taught her mother a crude, clear lesson in 'getting exactly what you want and now!' Something changed in Cathy from that day on. By anybody's reckoning she had previously splashed out to keep herself, her children and her home just how she liked; now she became passionately extravagant. The rift between her and her husband soon opened into a gulf, not that he noticed he was like a man marooned on a
n iceberg floating out to deep, tropical seas. He even seemed pleased in his gruff, vacant way. Cathy had her foibles; whose wife doesn't? She revelled in some kind of happiness so he must be doing something right. Better still, if she could have what she wanted, then he could get a few things, too. A hardworking man could expect a new car every year, couldn't he? Only Ian often tossed and turned on a night; what they said in the newspapers or on the TV about unprecedented prosperity seemed too good to be true. His wages certainly weren't rising; those bloody plastic cards were paying for everything. Rows with Cathy - who seemingly perfected a couldn't care less attitude overnight - inevitably ensued. Every time the dust settled, Ian brushed it off by confessing that he liked her new stuff and, well, long successful relationships have their pressures and cycles, don't they? He genuinely was so oblivious to his marriage's deathly, downward spiral. Like a big, gormless kid so mesmerised by a brightly painted spinning top he failed to stop following it as it whizzed, wobbled and disappeared down an open manhole.
Of course, two years on, courtesy of Alicia, Ian bitterly understood what he'd fallen for while his wife stood poised to claim her new, improved model. After she completed her final, winning moves, which included, for the time being, carrying on with the sad resolution of a woman whose husband has walked out…
Look at the time! Twenty-five to six! She'd just make it if she got her act together right now! Cathy's black leather handbag dangled by its straps from the back of her chair. She rummaged in it, produced a sheet of paracetamol and popped two into her yawn. Their chemical bitterness in her dry mouth caused her to screw up her eyes and she quickly picked up and tipped back her coffee mug, which clunked back down as she swallowed. The cartoon daisies painted on the mug continued to gaily smile into her peripheral vision as she checked her mobile and purse were in their usual compartments. In stockinged feet, she fled the kitchen, turning the light off with a swift, instinctive flick of her wrist. At the front door she pulled on a pair of brown flatbacks and glanced up the stairs into the darkness. The kids had set their alarms for college and school, and she'd ring them at half-past seven from work. They had no excuses for sleeping in. And yes, she'd put their packed lunches in the fridge. Go!
The sudden rush of cold air sharpened her headache as she flew down the slightly slippery garden path towards her car. Under the glow of the streetlight by the gate, the early autumn frost glinted on the pavement as if - to Cathy's mind - thousands of jewels had been magically cast in her path. A sign she'd finally be Michael's princess and escape this rotten merry-go-round.
Cathy worked in the QA department of a multinational manufacturer of confectionary. The enormous, lucrative operation both eased and exploited the town's above-average unemployment by providing family men and women with low-paid work that, no matter what their menial roles, played some part in moulding jelly into kid-friendly shapes and brightly packaging them so the youngest generation were tempted with repeated sugar-hits. Michael, whose family owned the factory before foreign competitors swooped on the stock market, had remained a director despite years of rumours concerning backroom plots to oust him. Cathy sometimes saw her brave love escorting important clients or estimable bosses from overseas around. They were people born wealthy - no one ever rose through the ranks - and they exuded complete confidence in their abilities and power. In the name of economics or discipline, they wielded axes through curt memos with such natural fluency that, whenever they boldly strolled into a department - all crooked, pensive brows and explanatory or questioning hand gestures - the workers silently shrunk inside themselves as if wishing to resemble indispensable machine components.
To have a man with such presence and the fortitude to defeat powerful foes made Cathy burn with pride, but, of course, she could never acknowledge Michael on the shop floor except to mutter 'hello' in the automated subservience to which all the VIP's were accustomed. Today, in all her jumpy expectation, Cathy felt that her gift for keeping the pretence up might abandon her, if their paths crossed. For that reason she'd only worked sporadically, ineffectively, in her cramped open plan office tucked away in a corner of a vast room behind a bulky, clattering machine that wrapped jelly farmyard animals in glossy, plastic film with a minimum of human help.
How would Michael respond? The question had started to drive Cathy crazy. Surely a man of his stature would see that he - they - had to put their future happiness above everything else. There'd be tearful, horrendous fights with his wife about abused trust and wasted lives that would, as the hostilities became red-hot, narrow and sharpen in focus; words would be forged into weapons with which to contest dry-eyed, acrimonious legal battles about who owned what. In light of Michael's respectful standing, the thought of public conflict particularly worried Cathy. But they could make it. Only she had to be the strong, discreet, supportive woman behind the great man. That meant they couldn't have the whole factory gossiping at such a trying, momentous time. Yes, playing it like one of the losers would make her a winner. So, for now, the scorned wife had to outplay the triumphant bride to be. If Michael and his high-fliers showed up on the shop floor, she'd simply mumble the obligatory greetings, business as usual. She wouldn't even pull a sour face at the workers' spiteful criticism of her man's entourage as they walked away. The workers' cowardice made her sick. It was easy for any shoddy bigmouth to take Michael to task when he wasn't present and able to defend himself. Why didn't they understand that the others were the heartless fat cats? Michael could be extremely charitable and, left to him, the company would be far more generous, he'd told her as much. Oh, why bother with such trivialities? She'd have to break the real news over the exquisite meal he'd planned that night somewhere wonderful in Leeds. The thought of it terrified her. What would she do if it went wrong?
'Bugger!' She was making such a pig's ear of the simplest data input, and that meant earache from up above when the numbers didn't tally. Nothing else for it, she'd have to start again. The boredom and the draining, unsociable hours were a curse on her quality of life, but it was the effect on her self-esteem that Cathy especially loathed about her job. A stunning creature like her looking out for imperfections on stupid jelly shapes that rotted kids' teeth or turned them into buzzing pests or whiny blobs! The professional, airbrushed photos of models compared unfavourably to a snapshot of her taken on a basic mobile phone. If this is all there is to life, she thought to herself for the ten thousandth time, then it's understandable why some women stick their heads in ovens or guzzle handfuls of pills. Not that she was unstable and could ever go that way.
Cathy shared her office with Kevin and Jessie. The latter - a backstabbing cow and an irreplaceable friend in equal measure - had been summoned upstairs after a five year old had found a bolt from one of the packing machines in a bag of edible Teddy Bears. 'Choke the little rats. One sure-fire cure for childhood obesity,' Jessie had quipped as she left to explain how a metal detector had gone down undetected on her watch. Podgy, balding Kevin - married with two nippers, a bit of a football bore and yet nice in his stiff collar way - was unaccustomed to hearing Cathy use any variant of the b, f or c words. 'Trouble?' he asked, after stopping typing and looking up from his computer screen.
'I don't know, Kevin,' Cathy sighed. 'It's just, you know, another of those days.'
His black moustache twitched when their eyes met across the room. Jessie called him Caterpillar Lip when he was out of earshot. 'You should have taken some time off on the sick to get over it,' he said.
Cathy had told everyone she'd split with Ian because they'd gradually grown apart, and it was all they were getting. Keep the story simple and straight and she couldn't get confused and blow her cover. 'Perhaps you're right. Yet here I am.'
'Tell you what, take it easy today. I'll key that stuff in for you. You go take a steady stroll round production to check the weights. It needs doing.'
'Would you? You're so kind. I'm really not with it with everything that's going off.'
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'I bet you're not.' Kevin squinted at his screen.
Cathy got her white smock from the locker in the corner of the sparse office. She put her arms into its sleeves, fastened the studs up the front, and pulled on a blue hairnet. Through the window, two-storeys down, on the dual carriage that skirted the town centre, traffic zipped by, going places. It was hours until the end of the shift. And Cathy longed for real freedom.
'Don't let the men get you down.'
'Oh, I won't.' Cathy was relieved Kevin had suggested touring production, which was mostly staffed by men, as opposed to the packing area, mostly staffed by women. Bored with their work, they could be evil bitches, and Cathy's charms worked exclusively on the other half of the human race.
To Cathy's ears each of the thirteen production machines sounded like a slow, rickety train transporting a troupe of mindless drummers - BOOM, CHA, CHA, BOOM, CHA, CHA - to nowhere, which is exactly where the men who operated the machines had arrived the second they signed a contract to work for peanuts in a sweltering, banal, dusty environment. The thick, white dust was actually food starch, used to create jelly moulds in trays. Every morning, when the production machines had been running for just a few minutes, every surface in the whole production area was layered with the fireless, ashy soot. 'Can't be any good for your lungs,' a few newcomers would observe, 'no matter what they say during your induction.'
'Just don't tell them you're asthmatic or you'll be sacked,' old hands would reply.
A night shift was employed to clean up the starch so the production cycle could tidily recommence at six am. It must obliterate a sentient man's self-image, Cathy always thought, even though the job had to be done for the place to remain remotely hygienic. Everything had a funny smell, and nothing reeked quite as bad as the huge vats of boiling, unset jelly - a dirty giant might have stuffed his fusty socks and his pissy pants into them. Really, absolutely disgusting! And how demeaning, then, Cathy reflected, for the night shift to spend the eight hours that the civilised world slept down on their knees with hand brushes, shovels, and waste-sacks. Not much better than sweeping chimneys in the days Queen Victoria ruled half the world!
Four men worked each computerised machine; an operator, his back-up, the driver of an electric trolley, and a poor sucker who sat at a conveyor belt, perspiring, trying not to nod off so he could pick out any crap mixed up in the set jellies. Michael had proudly told Cathy the latest production machines were marvels of modern engineering, and, as he'd watched over their installation, she hadn't liked to contradict him. In all honesty, the sight of the elongated, angular, metallic beasts and their grinding, revolving chains, rumbling, rolling conveyors, pushing, pulling and rattling carriages and rails, and their stinking, overspilling hoppers mostly probed the dark, squeamish side of Cathy's imagination, rousing mental flashes of trapped fingers, burnt skin and crushed ankles. Not that serious accidents regularly occurred, but her kids would never work at the factory just as they were forbidden to eat the muck it chucked out. The sooty chimneys of yesteryear might have gone, but there are still ways to pollute people, don't you know?
Day in, day out, the electric trolley men drove to the rhythm of the machines, feeding them pallets of set jelly at one end, relieving them of pallets of unset jelly at the other end, and frequently joking or quarrelling with the operators to prevent their minds from melting down. The hardest thing about the job, so some said, was preventing yourself from turning into a gibbering, fleshy appendage of hi-tech machinery. 'They want robots not people,' they'd carp. The operators would sometimes stand about flicking switches on the control panel, touching the computer screen and then scratching their arses; just as often they ran hither and thither completing tedious manual jobs that assured the supply of jelly from the kitchens didn't run out or the trays of jelly in starch didn't messily jam up the machine. In this way product and profit was churned out from the minute the morning shift started right up to the close of the afternoon shift.
It was a soul-destroying travesty for all but the most bovine and the bigwigs, and especially for the men with intelligence. One of the younger truck drivers had a degree in archaeology but had never been able to find a relevant position. Likewise the oddball with a First in English who could talk rings round the supervisors and was a marked troublemaker. The first mistake he made, he'd be out. 'All that education so they can help us lot to get kids fat,' their workmates would scornfully remark. 'Mine aren't going to university - what a waste of time! Does anybody understand the loony who spends his breaks with his head in books? Yesterday he started going on about bloody reification, whatever that means. I ask you!'
Though the men begrudged their lot, they were convinced there was nothing else for them, and, as one or two conservative voices occasionally said, 'It's a job and the conditions are a damn sight better than they were back in the day for folk like us. Just think about living then!' It was, to all but a few, and to all intents and purposes, a form of institutionalisation. The jingle of the company's TV advertisements made a couple of idiots sit up to attention in their homes.
Cathy's job on a round of the factory wasn't quite so monotonous, if only because she wasn't expected to transform into an attachment of one specific machine. She selected ten sweets from the thousands that endlessly dropped onto a conveyor from a revolving drum in which animal fat made them shine, visually inspected and weighed them to ensure they'd correctly moulded, and put a tick in a box on a form. If the jelly shapes were malformed, she phoned the packing area on the other end of the conveyor and instructed the packing workers to store the sweets with a red ticket until a boss decided what to do. Cathy then examined a sieve on the end of a pipe that carried the jelly from the smelly, sweaty kitchens on another floor. If the sieve was picking out impurities, she put a tick in another box, and if it appeared to be damaged, she phoned for a replacement. Health and Safety were paramount to the operation so far as the product was concerned - the management were obsessed with disgruntled consumers' potential to sue - but, while the workers' breaks conformed to government guidelines and were just long enough to stop most heads combusting, there were explosive incidents, nod, wink, that were swept under piles of the white soot. After a year of working in the place many men had resorted to communicating solely through abuse or brute sarcasm, taking less and less interest in anything that requires much thought. And the atmosphere had a nastier edge now a medley of foreign accents resonated in the place, as if the immigrant workers were to blame for populating the same dung heap.
Even if they knew where to draw the line to preserve their jobs, the bored, impotent machine operators' lusty stares and smutty comments galled Cathy intensely. Though she knew how to manipulate them, she shouldn't have to put up with it in this day and age! Could anybody blame her for wanting to escape? Wait while they found out she was to become the second wife of Michael Williams!
Cathy's round of the machines passed without incident until she was ticking the last box in the last production room. 'How are you today, sexy?' Ronnie Reynolds compensated for his Oompa-Loompa physique by puffing out his chest and boasting about enough fictitious sexploits to provide the porn industry with storylines for a year.
'I'm fine, sweetie.' Cathy's beaming smile hadn't illuminated the diminutive lecher's face; he was staring elsewhere.
'I bumped into Ian in the club at the weekend,' he said, matter-of-fact, finally looking up. 'The lad was what you might call devastated.'
'I'm very sorry about it, too, Ronnie. Unfortunately these things happen.'
'They sure do.' Ronnie licked his lips. 'Speaking of fortune, who's the jammy sod?' He treated her to one of his steamy winks, absolutely ridiculous - so Cathy thought - coming from a dinky stooge Willy Wonka would reject. Ronnie's prune-like complexion, blue hairnet and blue and white gingham overalls made him look too outlandishly inhuman.
'I'm not sure I follow you.' She cupped a hand to her ear as if the machine's racket had prevented
her from hearing.
'You know, your fancy man.'
'Can we keep anything that my husband has told you while under the influence,' she said huskily, jiggling her boobs, 'under our hairnets, please?'
'My lips are sealed, darling.' Ronnie winked again.
'Thank you ever so much. I must be getting on.'
It was such a stroke of luck that Ian had been too stunned to demand information from Alicia and she'd only revealed Michael's Christian name. The whole factory would be guessing, but - phew! - that's all!
As Cathy hastened towards the exit at the far end of the starchy room, Ronnie turned to his back-up, Andy Rogers, who'd hid, quietly laughing behind his hands, on the other side of the machine's control panel. 'What I'd give to be in Tricky Micky's skin for a few hours so I could roll around with that.'
Cathy sat alone at a table in a corner of the canteen, the furthest from the vending machines and food counter, presently unstaffed because no one wanted to be served. It was always the quietest time to take lunch; just two male workers were also eating at a table midway between Cathy and the deserted counter. They talked in subdued spurts between bites of their sandwiches while studying their newspapers' horseracing sections. The youngest of the pair, a spotty beanpole with a beak-like hooter, kept sneakily glancing over. Cathy recognised the usual desire; if the young man had heard any rumours, they weren't as interesting to him as his twitchy pecker.
Cathy had just removed the cellophane from her tuna sandwich when Josephine - an old-timer practised in the darkest arts of scandalmongering - awkwardly waddled in her direction carrying a battered lunchbox and a plastic cup of tea. Josephine had served the factory since she was a teenager, had never been considered for promotion, and worked best as a health-warning against sugary treats. Having scoffed the factory's wares every shift for years, her body had collapsed into a humongous glob; she had sickly, watery eyes, black, wonky teeth and grey whiskers wildly sprouting from the warts on her cheeks and chin.
Cathy's unwanted guest carefully placed her tray on the table and sat down, hoarsely sucking in each breath.
'Are you ok, Josephine?'
'Don't fuss me.'
On just about recovering, a minute or so later, Josephine produced a corned beef sandwich from her lunchbox and sank her rotten chompers into it. 'I remember when my husband left me,' she said through a mouthful and with a frankness that made Cathy blush. 'I swore I'd never marry again, and I've kept my word. They're nothing but greedy bleeders with their other women.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Cathy, squirming.
'There's no need to be sorry - I was happier when I got used to being alone.'
'I'm, erm, pleased for you.'
'What was it with your rat? A bit on the side? Booze?'
'Nothing so sensational,' Cathy replied, flustered. She glanced over to the door in the hope someone might come in and rescue her by changing the subject, if not by setting off the fire alarm. At least the two male workers had their heads in their newspapers and didn't seem to be earwigging. 'We'd grown apart.'
'There's usually more to it than that, love.'
Cathy put down her un-nibbled sandwich.
'Lost your appetite, love?' Josephine unwrapped a chocolate bar. 'There's no point going to pieces over any man.' She paused; her watery eyes swept Cathy's face searching for a reaction. As if to take away the disappointing taste of Cathy's pretty blankness, Josephine snapped off three sections of chocolate with one bite. 'I wanted you to know, love,' she went on, her teeth coated with gooey brown, 'that you can always cry on the shoulder of this old woman.'
'My two young ones,' Cathy replied with haughty restraint, her chair scraping on the floor in her hurry to get to her feet, 'will keep me occupied. You'll have to excuse me - I've got to get back to work.'
'Don't forget your purse. Remember what I've said.'
'Thanks.' But if the lousy, decaying mongrel wanted a juicy tale, she'd have to sniff, dig and wag her tail elsewhere. Cathy smiled grimly as she strode to the exit - Josephine knew less than Ronnie. Maybe she'd underrated that little creep, and he was capable of keeping his trap shut. Should he know more than he was letting on, then he was probably scared of being seen as the source of a rumour that attacked a boss. Cathy's pace quickened down the whitewashed corridor that led to the shop floor; her spirits had suddenly lifted. Everything was going to work out and it wouldn't be long now. They could gossip like washerwomen who'd all swigged a bottle of flat ale too many when she was a lady of leisure, sipping Pimm's.
Cathy was reassured to find the house peaceful and in one piece, despite Alicia's glittery pink hairbrush with dead golden strands being too close to a lidless tub of spread on the worktop. Suppressing yawns, Cathy wiped up the crumbs and a few beads of jam that had spilled onto the kitchen table. She splashed hot, soapy water over a couple of plates and coffee mugs, and put them and Alicia's brush where they belonged. She binned the spread when she found the tub's lid had slipped to the floor under the kitchen table.
By the time the kids got in, depending on whether they'd made plans through the day, she might be out. On the worktop she left two fivers and a note directing them to the fish and chip shop for tea.
The past days - combined with her early start - had taken it out of Cathy and it crossed her mind that fatigue threatened to spoil her crucial date. In her room, she got into her silky, lilac jim-jams and set her alarm; if she felt she could snooze like the sleeping beauty, she'd have to make do with an hour. Snuggling under the soft duvet, the mattress gently sinking, Cathy closed her eyes…
How magical it was to be a little girl riding a beautiful snowy unicorn round and round on a carousel on which was exquisitely, masterfully painted, in bold, bright colours, every wild flower imaginable! Their stems and ornate foliage intertwined, vibrant shades of green flowing around each other, almost hugging, as if Mother Nature was demonstrating her love. And what charming, graceful music! The carousel was in a lush, rolling meadow with daisies and buttercups and distant, craggy mountains capped with snow on every horizon. Young Cathy guessed it might be a secret place only known to a select, special few. The sun warmly caressed her pale, bare arms as she clung to the unicorn's stiff horn as it glided round and round on the carousel's outer lane. 'Look Mum! Look Dad!' Cathy called excitedly. 'We might fly!' But as she looked around she discovered she was alone. The ride ground to a halt and the music discordantly slowed to silence, as if a mechanism had jerkily unwound. No one appeared to be operating the carousel or collecting fares. Climbing down from her beautiful mount, Cathy cautiously descended the few steps to the grassy meadow only - in a blink - it had turned to silvery, smooth ice…
A mirror! Looking up, Cathy found herself in a vast, gloomy maze of mirrors that reflected her naked womanly image back and forth until it was replicated a thousand times and more. Who had moved the mountains? Spinning round in confusion, Cathy lost sight of her original likeness. And who was that? Distant, echoing voices urged her to run, turn this way, get away, come, come, quickly! But Cathy was afraid of fleeing in case her momentum broke a floor mirror and she cut her feet, for the floor and the ceiling were constructed of mirrors. 'What's the danger?' she called, her voice turning to an echo. She was trapped in a labyrinth of her own reflections.
The other voices intensified, move, move, run, and in panic she found herself in full flow, gliding over the mirrors, and yet, no matter how fast and obediently she ran, she was always misdirected, lost among another thousand reflections. Panting, sick of the useless, bewildering commands, she closed her eyes to rest… What? Was that Ian? And then her father? Could their - these - voices be trusted? The echoes from afar seemed to merge, become clearer, louder, nearer, until they became one, and recognisable: Michael's urbane tones begged her to move. 'Is that really you?' Cathy called out. Down the corridors her echoing voice slowly diminished to nothing. Goosebumps formed on her naked flesh and she shivered; suddenly it was extremely cold. Snow
fell through the ceiling mirrors and settled on the floor, covering up the reflection of her legs, her hips, her breasts, beneath her. Down on her haunches, Cathy ran her fingers through the snow and was startled by its warmth, which now spread through her toes. Ash? A fire? Though she couldn't smell smoke, she knew above all else she had to get away.
In no time, she had turned onto the longest mirrored corridor she had yet encountered. In the mirror at the very end, she spied a clothed reflection. Incredibly, no one stood before the mirror! Cathy vigilantly edged forwards until her heart jumped! Mother! Slipping and sliding on the smooth mirrors, Cathy hurtled towards this… this… mirage? Why didn't her mother show any sign that she recognised her only daughter? Cathy stopped in her tracks, frightened of both false hope and of perturbing her mother, who she had missed so terribly. The older woman continued to stare ahead as if - now Cathy was so close - looking beyond her daughter. Cathy had to speak to her! Fighting her impulse to run, Cathy tentatively moved, troubled by her mother's aloof stare. Just a few steps away, Cathy held out her hands, 'It's me, Mother, hold me!' Mother's eyes flickered; she benignly smiled and reached out to her girl. Their fingers met. Her mother's hands, cold as a tomb, gently pulled Cathy's fingers towards the mirror. They went through its surface as if it was water miraculously defying gravity. Matching her mother's rippled, beatific gaze, Cathy went through the mirror to meet her on the other side. A dazzling light flashed. Cathy had escaped the maze into a familiar room fragranced with lavender. 'Mother?' Searching around the room, Cathy's gaze settled on her alarm clock. It was due to go off in five minutes. She had stepped back into reality…
Did the dream mean anything? Until her mother had helped her, Cathy had sensed that she was condemned to imprisonment. A thought like a cruel slap caused her to fall back into her pillow. She had been so accustomed to looking dreamily ahead and thinking of Michael as her eventual means of escape, now the time to run had come, a most significant detail loomed like a landslide across her path. She was his mistress! How could she ever hope that he loved her the most? She despondently stared at the ceiling, thankful that it didn't reflect her expression. 'I'll just lie here and wait to die!' she resentfully exclaimed, hitting the mattress with the balls of her fists.
Cathy was not one to feel sorry for herself for long. If Michael had lied to her, shouldn't she fight for something? Forget this romance nonsense, she should take a leaf from Alicia's book and make him pay! Her anger felt wrong. Why did she keep on doubting Michael? Had he ever let her down? Shouldn't he be given the chance to prove that he wanted her? 'I'm beautiful', she declared. 'What man doesn't want a woman like me?' How could his wife compare? Cathy slipped from under her duvet and out of her nightwear. She admired her naked self in her full-length mirror. It had only been a dream.
One hour and a quarter later and Cathy transformed stood reflected. Her work was immaculate. Her long, blond tresses were pure, shiny silk, elegantly resting on and cascading off her slender shoulders down to, and beyond, the plunging neckline of her sleek, black, knee-length dress. It teasingly hugged the toned curves of her delicately tanned figure. Cathy smiled sunshine pearls, recalling that the shop assistant had enviously complimented her, 'You'd look fabulous in a tatty grey sack'. But there was no need to play at Cinderella tonight. It had taken all of Sunday afternoon to find the right thing, and wasn't Cathy so glad she'd persevered. The sharp, lively gleam had returned to her big, tantalising, emerald eyes; her fleshy, red lips parted in a smile of mysterious promises. Wouldn't her perfume of summery wildflowers turn the shyest man's head, rousing his deepest, innate desires? It wasn't conceit or vanity, or at least no more than that of other mortals who have been blessed with such looks; if life had taught Cathy one thing, it was to make the most of what she'd got in order to get what she wanted. And she fully intended to flourish now Ian was out of the way. She pirouetted, looking over her shoulder and into the mirror to be certain her stockings hadn't laddered. She felt unstoppable.
Cathy carried her black high heels with the glittery bows down the stairs. As she was pulling on her left shoe in the hall, the front door opened and Davie entered, his school tie trailing from his grey Nike hoodie's pocket, his backpack slung over his shoulder. 'Going out again?' he asked in such a rush that by the time she had both feet on the floor he'd already disappeared into the living room.
'What are you doing with your shoes on in there, Davie?'
'I'll take them off.'
'Do it now, and bring them out here and put them on the rack.'
'I've put them in my bag.'
'Do they belong there?'
'In a minute.'
'Oh no…' But she didn't have the time for a pantomime confrontation. 'There's some money in the kitchen for the fish and chip shop.' She heard the TV turn on. Davie skimmed through the channels. 'And don't spend all your time in front of that thing or the computer. I'm sure you've homework to do. Do you hear me?' A taxi hooted. 'Tell Alicia…' Oh, what's the point?
Cathy spotted Michael's red Ferrari Enzo in the car park of the motel tucked away on the edge of town as soon as her taxi swung off the main road. He was - as much as is possible in such a motor - inconspicuously parked between a sizeable white van and the tall hedgerow in the corner the furthest from reception, not that anyone was noseying around under such a bulging, soggy, grey sky. It's a miracle the rain is holding off, Cathy thought, experiencing once again that giddy angst that had troubled her initial transgressions. The chubby, unkempt, balding driver, whose clammy armpits had disgustingly done battle with her perfume for prominence in the cab, took her fare while laconically grunting into his headset; some kind of dispute with HQ about early shifts had lasted throughout Cathy's ten minute ordeal. Conscious of her audience across the car park, Cathy slowly swivelled on her bum and slid her long legs out of the rear door. Drawing upright, she smoothed down her dress and then stood around speaking to no one over her mobile while the taxi reversed and pulled onto the highway. Good riddance! She daintily dropped her phone in her petite handbag.
Taking her first steps towards Michael's motor, swaying her hips, a sudden cold breeze whipped the muddied, torn cover of a tabloid across her path. In the second that she halted and waited for it to blow away, she envisioned a photograph of Ian and the kids as if their story had crashed into the headlines. What had she done? Only what she had to do for her own well-being. She was innocent. Skirting between the parked motors, she smiled effusively when she was close enough to be sure Michael was examining her through his tinted windscreen.
He kissed his fingertips and softly touched them against her cheek so as not to smudge her makeup. 'I'm so glad to see you again,' she said moonily, relishing his strong, musky aftershave. 'It feels like ages…'
'Far too long, my little cherub. Trust me, tonight we shall compensate for it. I see that my little head-turning princess is more than suitably attired to grace one of the finest restaurants in the north of England.'
'Thank you!'
'Belt yourself in, and away we go.'
'So you've missed me?' She pouted demurely.
'It's been unbearable.'
'Really?'
'You were always on my mind and always out of reach.'
'Love can be such a trial. Hearts have to beat true and strong to endure.' She could imagine speaking to only Michael in such a manner, as if the defences she had built up to deal with crude, everyday encounters melted away, became utterly superfluous in his company. Sometimes - and it now appeared in sharper focus because she was painfully alert in light of the extraordinary news she had to break - their conversations seemed to be scripted. In her darker moments she had wondered if they were too eager to play the roles of Hollywood heroine and hero, but, she would tell herself when her lightness returned, it was different with Michael because their relationship was like no other. A one-off affair in a million lifetimes. Something worthy of films or literature. And how else could the few lucky people c
hosen for such a fate express themselves? They've just the same words that are constantly tainted by billions of worthless imitations of the real thing.
'Do you love me, Michael? I mean with all your heart.' She couldn't help herself. Nor could he:
'More than life itself. It pains me that you have to ask so timidly, my little cherub,' he said with grave sincerity, taking his eyes off the rear end of the grimy truck ahead of them so he could glance into her yearning, emerald jewels. Some coarse animal had fingered 'fuck you' into the muck on the trucks' rear door, but it only served to highlight that they existed on another world. 'Shouldn't you know what you mean to me by now, my darling?'
Cathy shimmered with delight. 'I should know, and I do know. It's just that I've, oh, I must be patient - we've waited so long that another hour won't make any difference. I don't want you spinning off the road in surprise. What a disaster that would be when this opportunity - there I go again, getting ahead of myself. Darling, I've something to tell you but it will wait.'
'You intrigue me, my little cherub, but if you insist.'
He overtook the truck and then a coach load of school kids, some of whom enthusiastically pointed at the slick, powerful motor and, she imagined, the ravishing princess in the passenger seat.
'I must say - to put your mind at rest - if you've money problems, consider them solved.'
'That's incredibly generous, Michael, but it concerns the affair of our hearts. I wish I hadn't said anything. Not yet.'
'A man of my calibre copes with any obstacle life puts in his way. Haven't I always told you that?'
'I've every faith that you'll continue to do so. It isn't an obstacle, however, rather that an obstacle has… Oh, everything will be fabulous!'
'That's the spirit, my cherub. We haven't any problems. Let's get to the restaurant and enjoy our precious moments.' He put his foot down, pulling away from a hen party having a sing-song in a black and white minibus.
'Such a pleasure!' Cathy squealed.
'It's all mine.'
Dense black clouds glowered across the horizon and the concrete sprawl of Leeds as they left the motorway on their approach to the city. 'How beautiful!' she cried when a fork of lightning seemed to flash between two of the highest tower blocks, one of which had a sloping escarpment from the ground to its middle floors, creating the impression of a giant, angular Dalek scouring the streets below for victims. 'And here's the big drums to announce our imminent arrival!' he laughed as thunder rumbled and rolled across the sky.
'So spellbindingly romantic, darling.' Soon they'd be free to do as they pleased in the anonymity of the city. Always such a luxury! 'It could only happen for us,' she crowed, as if they were the sole travellers on the road. As if anyone else would associate the stormy scene with romance.
Michael chaperoned Cathy from his car to the restaurant's entrance under the protection of his black umbrella. Big raindrops beat against it, dripping down the sides into shallow, newly formed puddles. He'd lay his jacket across them if it was necessary, what a dear, well-bred gent!
To Cathy's delectation their table was by a window overlooking the slow, olive river, why, it was murky only because of the poor light! It took a genuine lover to think on to insist on such seating! The modern, fashionable penthouses that towered over the river's ancient, grey, stone banks were reflected in the water's surface that showed off such adorable, pretty, circular patterns in the downpour. The cold rain lashed against the restaurant's windows as if to stress the cosiness inside. 'This is so enchanting. So us, Michael.'
'They've so chicly, finely balanced the art deco style with contemporary spaciousness,' he replied, agreeably.
She looked around, her wide eyes drinking in the lovely, vibrant, flamboyant prints that adorned the walls. Could she find a favourite? There were so many to choose from! But yes! Look at that amazing depiction of a lithe, crimped blond in a sinuous, white dress, leaning on a piano and holding a glass of red wine to her lips. With slicked black hair, a pencil moustache and a stylish dinner jacket, her lover lit a cigarette by her side. Not that smoking was Cathy's thing in the here and now, but it used to epitomise cool. 'It's like being transported to the roaring twenties. Captivating!'
They agreed to bypass starters and go straight to the main course. Cathy was on her third glass of the house red by the time the waiter brought her salmon and roasted vegetables to the table. Michael had decided on something exotically unpronounceable but visually redolent of beef stew. She was partly annoyed, partly relieved, that he hadn't jumped in and asked about her news, but then, her Michael would pick an ideal moment. As they picked up their cutlery, he began to relate his pet anecdote about outwitting a pompous business rival. No matter how many times Cathy had heard it, she had never failed to be impressed. To think, so many women had never comprehended the joys of the company of a man who knows how to conduct himself in the world. They too easily settle for the fools who tricked them into accepting rings when they were naïve babies. And it wasn't just Michael's business prowess, he breathed culture. He'd often exhilarated Cathy by spontaneously reciting poetry. If she didn't always 'get it', she appreciated the thought, for, as they say, it is the thought that counts. But much finer than obscure, rhyming words, Michael could critique art! The previous summer, somehow, they'd managed to get away to the capital for a weekend. He'd escorted her around the Tate on the Saturday afternoon and his interpretations of Picasso were so staggeringly inspirational she bought a book on the subject later in the week, after they'd returned. The book's author, of course, had entirely different views, which goes to show that the so-called experts can get their portraits confused with the sight and sound of their backsides. Cathy had to confess she still believed the man who painted those lovely, soft, blurry pastels - what was his name? - was the greatest artist… But such talk was for another night. Even Michael's witty portrayal of his sweetest-tasting business conquest was overshadowed by her memory of their meeting on her first day at the factory, a couple of years previous.
Surely it was a favourable sign that Michael had immediately asked her out? He must have treasured her on first sight. He'd often said as much. Of course, she'd declined his offer. Back then she was still bound by the ideal of loyalty in marriage, even though, in retrospect, it had started to crumble long before Michael suavely put himself in her picture. Ian simply hadn't turned out to be the man she thought she'd met. Five years her senior, he'd seemed so earnestly manly when she was sweet sixteen. As she grew into her twenties, however, she'd slowly, painfully, realised her error. Ian might be handsome, but he had nothing else to offer. Like a stripped male mannequin in a skip on waste ground following the demolition of a dingy row of shops. And a girl like her could have had the pick of the best! Michael had been so gracious when she'd turned him down that she'd felt - despite swearing to remain true to her vows, despite her daughter and son, despite the ring on Michael's finger - a cutting pang of regret.
He determined to win her over as soon as they met socially, a retirement do for dozy, plump, good-humoured Mrs Brown who had spent her entire working life on the shop floor. Michael gave a resounding speech on Mrs Brown's many talents, which he knew more about than she or anyone else did, before presenting the doddering dear with a carriage clock and fifty pounds worth of gift vouchers for Marks & Sparks. 'What tight arses they are,' Jessie whispered, 'after the poor cow has given them so much of her time.'
'I thought it was a lovely presentation,' Cathy said, turning up her nose and marching off to the toilets.
Michael, moving fast, cornered Cathy by the cigarette machine in the foyer when she emerged from the ladies. 'You're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen,' he said, winding up his second great speech of the evening, which had mostly sailed over Cathy's head because she was coping with feeling so girlishly funny.
'That's all very well, but you're married,' she stoically maintained, refusing to meet his imploring gaze.
'I should never hav
e proposed to her. She's an academic bore. All lecture room, no life; she might as well sleep with the education system. I want to enjoy my time with a special person. I want to be with you.'
At last looking into his eyes, Cathy perceived his compelling magnetism, oh, he was so urbane and, frankly, he could back up his big talk with hard cash. If only they'd met years ago. She continued to shrug off his advances with the cynical wit all women develop to varying degrees in order to put their suitors down and keep them at arm's length. Yet Michael understood persistence would exhaust her supply of one-liners, after which she'd be exposed and vulnerable to flattery, which would get him everywhere. Shortly, she agreed to meet up for one drink - and only one drink - the following Wednesday. Any doubts she had about a married man who was ten years her senior vanished when he presented her with red roses, Belgian chocolates and a wonderful recital of Shakespeare. She was comparable to the finest summer's day, something that her husband had forgotten in his bleak, emotionless winter of mundane practicalities. Her story demanded a happy ending! Why else had she been born so gorgeous? She was worth it! Even tonight, pouring out her first glass of wine, the waiter had commented that she and Michael made the most attractive couple and, yes, waiters have to say such things, but sometimes they are true. She so loved being with Michael; she could dream and he had the power to make reality. They should go on cruises and do all those things like sharing foreign sunsets and making love, lingeringly, in five-star hotels. Why couldn't life be like a centre-spread or the most scintillating chapter? Only his wife stood in their way.
'Now, my little cherub,' Michael said softly, noting Cathy had barely smiled at the hilarious twists of his story. 'What's our little problem?' He sipped his Perrier water, hoping she hadn't had too much of the red stuff, which wasn't unknown. She'd worn a strange, if serene, expression since they'd ordered their food.
'I know you're a man who'll honour his word, not that there are many of your type left in the world…'
'Absolutely.'
'… So I shouldn't have fretted.'
'I'm sure it's only a matter of my usual alchemy, so we can head back to your place for a night cap without any worries. Davie's out? Ian's at work?'
'I was expecting you to have heard.'
'What?' He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands together as if he'd pray if he had to. Cathy winced as she caught sight of his ring. 'Come on, cherub, out with it.'
'Ian's lost his job. We…'
'Of course,' Michael said softly. 'I should have thought on that he worked there. I've been under so much pressure this week. So that's our problem. We can't let our hair down at your place until he finds employment in tricky times. Easily remedied; I'll fix him a position on the opposite shift to you. All you have to do is say that you pulled the strings of a woman in HR.' He smiled winningly.
'I'm afraid it's more complicated than that.'
'Go on,' he said with a part-fascinated, part-wary drawl.
'Right away?'
'Certainly.'
He leaned back in his chair, fidgeting with the ring on his finger, avoiding Cathy's anxious, darting eyes while she stopped and started and then spluttering, told him of the consequences of Alicia's outburst.
'You know that I don't drink when I'm driving,' he said when Cathy had finished. 'On such a special, special day I'm sure I can be forgiven for savouring my favourite tipple. We've often discussed moving on and, at last, our moment is here.' He grinned affectionately and leaning towards Cathy urgently whispered, 'Carpe diem!' Sitting up, he raised his hand, 'Waiter, a large brandy. Cathy, my little cherub, we deserve everything that is coming our way.'
She knew she could depend on Michael! And it was all a result of the iron resolve of her darling babe, Alicia. Cathy could have cried, except it wouldn't do in public - people would assume Michael had been a beast. Still beside herself with apprehension and awe, she forced herself to be bubbly, fun-loving, enthusing about everything they might do now the future was theirs. Yes, now she felt better! Michael, sipping his drink, swishing his glass round and round, became intoxicated with plans. To hell with the rat race! Their time was priceless. He'd retire and visit the wonders of the world. Bless his sweet soul!
They left the restaurant arm-in-arm. To Cathy's immense satisfaction the sky had cleared. She didn't mind the bite in the air now she had her man. Its freshness was so appropriate for a new start. Her goosebumps would disappear when Michael put the heating on in his exquisite car. 'Don't you love looking up at the stars?' she purred.
'Most of them died millions of years ago. And look, a full moon.'
'Oh,' she said, uneasily. 'I thought…'
'I prefer looking into my darling's eyes.'
'Michael, you're such a… poet.'
'To our chariot, my lady.'
The downpour has cleansed the city, thought Cathy. Every surface seemed to shine so warmly, so engagingly, under the streetlights in spite of the autumn chill. People were drifting from pub to pub in search of the thing perhaps only she and Michael in the whole city possessed. She contentedly sank into her seat with conscious, wine-fuelled dreams. Jaunty, elegant, classical music played and Michael too no doubt went places as he silently drove, checking the rear-view mirror from time to time.
They pulled up at the end of the street. 'I profoundly regret that I can't come in tonight when we've so much to discuss and to celebrate. What plans and days are ahead of us! But as you've so shrewdly said, your children will need some time to get used to changes.'
'You're such a considerate man, Michael, which is just one of the many things I love about you.'
They kissed. Their eyes slammed shut like the doors to private rooms when they realised the other was watching.
'I'd better get out before a busybody spots us,' Cathy said nervously. 'Not that it really matters now. Or at least it won't matter soon. Michael, I'm unbelievably excited.'
'Goodnight, my little cherub. I shall see you very soon.'
'I'm free anytime. Thursday?'
'I'm afraid I'm taking my wife to a play. I won't tell her until the weekend.'
'A play?' Cathy felt sick with jealousy. She'd never been that way before Ian had left, but now the thought of Michael spending some time with his wife, especially after the promises they'd just made to one another… A man as sensitive as Michael was bound to harbour some affection from over the years. She'd sometimes had moments when she thought of Ian. Or the man he once was.
'Some infernal classic that my wife fawns over. She's such an 'intellectual'. Waiting for Godot. Quite ironic really, the time we've spent waiting for each other.'
'Yes,' Cathy said, looking away with teary uncertainty. His wife was an 'intellectual'? By comparison, did he think she was a bimbo? Through the window, in the light of the street lamp, the radial strands of a spider's web were visible in the privet. She shivered. 'You know what's for the best.'
'Chin up, my little cherub. I've an extremely important meeting on Friday. I don't want hell to break loose before then. Afterwards I won't care a jot. She'll go mad when I tell her.' He chuckled dryly. 'I'll enjoy telling her I've someone else.'
'You will?'
'She's the most selfish woman.'
'I shouldn't expect you to rush things,' Cathy said, brightening. 'I'm sorry.'
'Whatever for?'
'I…' She felt silly.
'Don't fret, cherub. Goodnight.' He kissed his fingertips and placed them on her cheek.
He sped off as soon as she had crossed over onto her side of the street. It perplexed Cathy, as she looked along the terraced houses and saw the glow of Davie's bedroom light, that Michael never talked to her about his daughters. Perhaps he thought she was inclined to the same selfishness that made his wife repugnant. Cathy was forever talking about her two without ever mentioning his girls, who were away at university. He must dearly love them. The next time she met him she'd make a point of showing her interest.