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Shrugging himself free from their collective clasp, he stood up, agitated beyond belief. ‘I never said she was hot, and that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s not a winning combination, it’s a car crash waiting to happen. Why on earth would I be interested in a woman I have an uncontrollable urge to strangle?’
Leah clapped her hands. ‘Oooo, even better.’
Matt shook his head. ‘You’re a very strange creature, Leah Hardy.’
‘I know.’ She stood up and kissed his cheek, leaning on his chest as she stretched up on tiptoe. ‘Stop searching for easy and uncomplicated,’ she said, her expression turning serious. ‘You need a woman you can argue with, fall out with and enjoy making up with.’ She patted his chest. ‘Trust me on this. I know you better than you know yourself.’
And that was what worried him.
Chapter Nine
Friday, 3rdMay
Who knew that confessing to your GP that you regularly fantasised about bludgeoning your estranged husband and his new floozy to death with a spade would result in an urgent referral for anger management classes. Other options included taking anti-depressants, enduring weekly counselling sessions or joining the local ‘Stitch & Bitch’ – where she could vent her frustrations along with a load of other menopausal women.
It was only after Connie had left her GP appointment that she’d registered the inappropriateness of confessing the true depths of her rage. Especially as the GP in question was also one of her bosses. It had never occurred to her to change doctors when she’d started working there. But then, she’d never envisaged a time when she’d be so consumed with anger that she’d lie in bed at night imagining ways to dispose of a body.
So, here she was, a week later, about to attend her first ‘therapy’ session and wondering whether she’d have been better off just agreeing to the medication.
Humiliation burnt in her cheeks as she pulled into the gym car park. Why was it that she’d been assessed as being mentally unstable, while her idiot husband could act like a hormone-driven adolescent and no one batted an eyelid. If anyone had lost the plot, it was him.
‘Waitrose has changed,’ her mum said, nodding at the building ahead.
‘This isn’t Waitrose,’ Connie replied with a sigh, having explained a dozen times why they were here. ‘It’s a boxing gym.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Who’s Jim?’
On any other day, Connie might have laughed, but today she was feeling somewhat bruised and disgruntled. Not to mention agitated. As if enduring this torture wasn’t bad enough, she was having to drag her eighty-four-year-old mother along for the ride. Most days Doris Emerick was safe to be left alone, but some days she wasn’t. Like today, when she’d decided to dry her washing in the microwave.
It wasn’t her mother’s fault, Connie knew that. It was the disease. A disease that required careful handling, patience and resilience – all of which Connie lacked. Trained carers had the ability to remain detached and unaffected when their charge called them names and resisted eating or getting dressed, but it wasn’t so easy when that person was your own mother.
‘I’m having a boxing lesson,’ Connie said, trying to sound upbeat and positive about the situation. ‘Hopefully, there’s a viewing gallery where you can sit and watch.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘I thought a change of scenery night do us both good.’
‘I’d rather go to Waitrose.’
‘Me too, Mum.’ Connie exited the car and retrieved her sports bag from the boot, heading around to the passenger side to help her mother out. ‘Give me your hand, Mum.’
Doris reached into the door compartment and handed Connie the ice scraper.
‘Not the ice scraper, your hand.’
‘My bag?’
‘Your hand.’ She gestured to her mum’s hand. ‘So I can help you out of the car.’
‘I can manage,’ her mother said, lifting herself from the car with ease and reminding Connie that there was nothing wrong with her physical health.
As always, her mum looked pristine. Her ice-white hair was styled, her navy skirt and cornflower-blue blouse were neatly pressed, and she was wearing lipstick and powder. Her outward appearance was polished and smart, just as her home was – well, with a little help from the carers who now visited thrice daily.
Her mum’s world was orderly and governed by routine. The dementia team looking after her said it gave the person structure and familiarity to their day, and it was often the last thing to be relinquished before the shift from occasional lapses in memory to full-blown confusion. Connie wasn’t looking forward to that stage. She doubted her mother was either.
They headed for the building ahead and entered via an uninviting metal door. It was a rundown portacabin with limited light that no doubt attracted a very different type of clientele to the spa. There were no manicures or seaweed facials on offer, only a humid changing area and a poorly stocked vending machine. The inside smelt of sweaty feet and talcum powder, and once again Connie was struck by the depths to which she’d spectacularly descended.
How visiting a place such as this was supposed to improve her mental state, she wasn’t sure. The sight of various perspiring bodies pummelling punchbags and sparring in the boxing ring would be enough to unhinge any sane person.
