‘Sorry darling, Fernando’s taking me for a day at the races tomorrow. And the early part of next week is looking absolutely chock-a-block.’
‘Well, I’ll call you then.’
‘Alright,’ she trilled. ‘Have a lovely evening. And don’t forget, November third, Mornington Grange. You’ll need flip flops or towelling slippers, but the robe and towels are included. I think. I’ll check with Robert. Get ready to relax!’ (This was said in quite a threatening and instructional tone, which somewhat undermined the message.)
‘Bye!’ I said, disconnecting the call as I bundled myself out of the now moving taxi.
Joe extended a hand and pulled me from the path of oncoming vehicles. ‘Meredith?’ he said.
‘The very same.’ I tried to discreetly pull out the wedgie from my jumpsuit as we walked up the steps to the entrance. ‘She has a real knack for making something that should be a treat, hugely stressful. Why did you tell her about the pharmaceutical contract ending?’
‘Sorry love.’ He looked genuinely contrite. ‘I thought she knew. I assumed you’d already told her.’
I huffed. ‘No. I was going to tell her, of course. But I was trying to work out how to phrase it in such a way that it didn’t add to her list of the many reasons I’m a failure.’
‘You’re not a failure,’ he said. ‘And your mother doesn’t think you are. I’m sure she’s very proud of you.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Well, I’m sure she doesn’t think any less of you for being made redundant. It could happen to anyone.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened if I’d chosen a career in dentistry, would it?’
‘Like Martha Kimpton’s daughter,’ we both said in unison, referring to the oft-quoted example my mother used.
‘Anyway. You can tell her about the interview. She’d be impressed by that.’ He held open the heavy part-glazed front door of Hole in One.
‘An interview for a part-time library assistant in one of the least desirable areas of town,’ I said as I walked through to the bar area. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I think it’s impressive,’ he said, giving my arm a squeeze. ‘And we should have a drink to celebrate.’
I opted for a dirty martini, which may have been a mistake. It felt like so long since I’d even been in a bar I’d forgotten what normal people drink, and I didn’t just want a glass of wine like I might have at home. Still, Joe looked a little surprised by my choice, as if his wife had turned into a Bond villain.
‘Joe!’
‘Steve!’
There was a general thumping of backs and masculine greetery with the silver fox standing next to us at the bar. Joe introduced me to Steve, who, if memory served, was the big business fish Joe was trying to net, and his wife, Carol, who looked to be in her early fifties, although it was difficult to tell given that parts of her were significantly younger. Her nosehad definitely been on the receiving end of an over-enthusiastic plastic surgeon and was now wafer thin in a Michael Jackson style, somewhat at odds with the rest of her face, which had obviously been pumped full of fillers. Still, I wasn’t one to judge, I thought to myself as I silently judged her, and I smiled as she nudged past her husband into the space beside me.
‘Dirty martini,’ she said, eyebrows raised (although this seemed to be a permanent state). ‘I’ve just gone for the usual Prosecco.’ She indicated her half full glass. ‘I justlovethe bubbles!’ Her voice went all high-pitched and giggly. ‘Steve says to me,Carol, what time is it?And I say,Prosecco o’clock, don’t I Steve?’ She nudged her husband in the ribs and he smiled benignly. ‘Whatever time of day it is,’ she nudged me now, ‘it’salwaysProsecco o’clock in my house!’
I stared at her for a second, unsure whether she was taking the piss in an elaborate parody of herself – and then I realised she was serious.
‘Oh, yes,’ I laughed. ‘Same here!’
‘Girls just wanna have fun – amirite?’ She chinked her glass against my coupe while I prayed my face hadn’t given away the massive internal cringe I was feeling.
‘I’ll introduce you to the other wives,’ she said, topping up her glass from the open bottle on the counter and holding it aloft as she wobbled on her heels in the direction of a group of highlighted and buffed women who were conferring in the corner.
‘Holla!’ she called, waving the bottle in the air to get their attention. ‘Ladeeez! Let’s get this party started!’ She winked at the assembled women who understandably looked a little alarmed. ‘Who needs a refill?’
‘Not for me thank you, Carol.’ A very toned woman in a figure-hugging black dress placed a hand over her glass and smiled sweetly at our generous but slightly kamikaze chief hen.‘You know what a terrible lightweight I am!’ She pulled an exaggerated look of horror. ‘I’d be under the table in minutes if I tried to keep up with you! Besides, John and I are up at the crack of dawn to take Reuben to his open day.’ She gave her immaculate blonde hair a shake and mouthed ‘Oxford,’ with a conspiratorial little whisper.
‘Gosh Tiggy, look at you with a son at Oxbridge,’ said the woman next to me who had no such qualms about refusing Carol’s Prosecco. She had a squarer frame than her friend and had chosen a voluminous floral dress that wasn’t enormously flattering.
‘Well – not yet,’ said Tiggy. ‘I don’t want to jump the gun. But his teachers absolutelyinsistedhe apply. They say that his sort of natural aptitude needs the correct academic environment to flourish.’
‘You must be very proud,’ I said, feeling that I ought to introduce myself into the conversation seeing as Carol was occupied with filling up people’s glasses. ‘My daughter has a friend who started there this year. And quite a few of her class went to Oxford Brookes – they’re all having a great time.’
