Women Behaving Badly_An uplifting, feel-good holiday read Read online

  “Not on heart conditions, no. But I know you pretty well.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Clifford, swerving violently. “Now look what you made me do! I nearly ran over that cat!”

  “It’s not my fault if you aren’t looking where you’re going.”

  “So you’re an expert driver, as well?”

  “I would be if you’d let me.”

  This was a sore point. When Clifford and Mavis had first got together all those years ago, he’d promised to teach her to drive. Like so many of his promises, it had come to nothing, and Mavis had never got round to making alternative arrangements. This of course was largely her fault; she could easily have obtained driving lessons elsewhere. But the fact that she was responsible for her nondriving status served only to inflame her resentment, for there are few things more infuriating than finding that you are to blame for the situation in which you find yourself.

  “You’re probably too old now, anyway,” Clifford said.

  “Too old for what?”

  “Too old to learn to drive.”

  “Clifford, that was a horrible, cruel thing to say!”

  “The truth hurts,” said Clifford comfortably.

  “Oh, so the truth hurts, does it? Well, try this for truth.” Mavis was getting into her stride. “You are becoming an old, fat bore. You seem to think of nothing and no one but yourself. And I’ve had enough of it!”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “Did you say I was old?” Clifford said after a moment.

  “Yes, I did. You’re a lot older than I am, and you say I’m too old to learn to drive. That definitely makes you old.”

  “And fat?”

  “Yes. Just look at your beer belly!”

  “And a bore?” There was a dangerous note in Clifford’s voice.

  There is a moment in a row — especially one that has been building up for some time — when suddenly there are no holds barred. All the ammunition comes out of the arsenal, and to hell with the consequences. The satisfaction for the combatants is as brief as it is deep.

  Mavis was aware of all this, but there was no going back now, and so she might as well enjoy the moment (if enjoy was the right word). It was years — literally — since she and Clifford had had a row, and this one was long overdue.

  “Yes. Just listen to yourself. Headaches, chest pain, indigestion… There’s always something to complain about. Have you any idea how deeply boring it is having to listen to you?”

  “It must be, for someone with your sparkling personality,” said Clifford, driving much too fast. “And there’s your dazzling career, of course, too. We mustn’t forget that. And if we’re talking about looks, you’re perfect, I suppose? You haven’t a grey hair on your head, have you? And you probably think you’ve got the body of a supermodel, too. Lucky me. What have I done to deserve you?”

  “How dare you!” Mavis cried. “You’ve enjoyed my body for years — you’ve said so often enough — and as for age, well, you — you stole my youth, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, please! Don’t be so bloody melodramatic. I never stole anything. You gave yourself to me of your own free will. I always promised to leave Dorothy —”

  “Oh, Dorothy! Yes. I forgot. All those empty promises. How many years is it now? You were never going to leave Dorothy, were you? You were lying all along!”

  The row raged all the way back to Mavis’s front door, where Clifford drew up with a screeching of brakes. He didn’t get out to open the car door for her (Clifford’s manners were usually impeccable), and so Mavis had to make her exit unaided. As she straightened up, an icy little breeze found its way up her skirt and into the French knickers, reminding her of past treats and present disappointment and further fuelling her anger. She slammed the door.

  “So that’s it, is it?” Clifford yelled through the open car window.

  “That’s it,” said Mavis, getting out her house keys.

  For a moment, their words hung suspended like breath in the cold air between them, waiting for someone to reach out and rescue them, to make everything all right again. Mavis knew that this was a make-or-break moment, but she couldn’t bring herself to climb down, and she was pretty sure that Clifford wouldn’t, either.

  “Goodbye, then,” said Clifford.

  “Goodbye.”

  As she stood on the doorstep feeling the first fat drops of rain down the back of her neck and watching Clifford’s car sweep off down the road, Mavis thought that she might be going to cry, but she was relieved when the moment passed. It would be a shame to risk red swollen eyes and a headache for Clifford. He wasn’t worth it.

  Her mood was not improved when she found that in her absence, Maudie, most unusually, had got out of bed and had been busy in the kitchen. This had happened only once before and was possibly due to the after-effects of last night’s wine, but today it was the last straw. Much of the kitchen and Maudie herself were covered with flour and jam and butter, and several items of crockery appeared to have been smashed. The cat, who was rarely discomfited, had taken refuge on top of a cupboard.

  “What are you doing?” Mavis demanded.

  “Making a little pie, dear. Your father likes a little pie when he comes home from work.”

  “Mother, Father has been dead for eighteen years.”

  “Has he, dear?” Maudie’s eyes filled with tears. “Why did no one tell me?”

  “They did tell you. There was a big funeral. Remember?”

  “Did we have cooked meats afterwards?”

  “Yes, we had cooked meats afterwards.” Mavis fetched a dustpan and brush and began clearing up the mess.

  “And flowers?”

  “And flowers.”

  Maudie cheered up a little. “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes.” Mavis tipped the last shards of china into the bin and filled a bowl with soapy water.

  Maudie shuffled towards her, leaving floury footprints in her wake. “Is it time to go to confession?”

  “We are not going to confession! I am going to clean you up, and this mess, and then you are going to go and watch television while I make supper.”

  Maudie’s face crumpled.

  “You shouted at me,” she said in a bewildered little-girl voice. “Mavis, you shouted at me!”

  “Oh, Mother, I’m sorry.” Mavis immediately regretted her outburst. “I’m so sorry. I’ve just had an awful afternoon. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “Is it because of Father?” Maudie asked.

  “No. It’s because of — Clifford.”

  “Who’s Clifford?”

  “My man friend.”

  “What man friend?” Maudie licked raspberry jam off her fingers and then wiped them on her cardigan.

  “Oh, never mind.” For it seemed that the existence of Clifford had still not returned to Maudie’s befuddled brain.

  Mavis was surprised to find that she was disappointed. For if Maudie really did know about Clifford, then it would have been nice to talk about the afternoon’s row, to gain a little sympathy and, if not some understanding (understanding was not Maudie’s strong point these days), at least a little support. But this was obviously not to be.

  That night, after she had put her mother to bed, Mavis was once more overwhelmed with rage and grief. How could Clifford have said all those awful, hurtful things? How could he? After all she’d done, all she’d been through for him, all she had sacrificed. She thought of the years she had given to Clifford, of her youth and such physical attributes as she had once had; all, all had been Clifford’s. Her body had been entirely his, for she had had no other lover, and she very much doubted whether anyone new would want it now. Her fertility, too. That had been wasted on Clifford. As she undressed for bed, she took off the pretty camisole, the stockings, the suspender belt — all garments that had been bought to please Clifford rather than herself. The knickers were a particularly cruel reminder of the events of the afternoon, and in another moment of fury, Mavis rip
ped them to shreds and stuffed the filmy pink fragments in her wastepaper basket.

  But while she tried to keep her anger stoked up with memories of Clifford’s faults, his many virtues kept creeping into her mind to spoil her mood. Clifford’s chivalry, his compliments, and his loyalty — all these came to the surface of Mavis’s mind. For she knew that the things he had said had been spoken in anger and that he probably hadn’t meant them. And if he had been unreasonable, she had undoubtedly been the one to start the row.

  Was it for her, then, to seek a reconciliation? It was still not too late to do something about it. Several times, her hand reached for the phone so that she could contact the mobile that Clifford kept especially for her messages, and on each occasion, she withdrew it. Despite her part in the afternoon’s events, she wasn’t ready yet to step down and apologise. She would wait and see what happened.

  But nothing happened. A week passed, and Mavis received no word from Clifford. In all the years of their relationship, they had never been out of touch, and Mavis began to be seriously worried. It had been all right to have the row — understandable even to part on such bad terms — but no contact at all? It was unheard of.

  Gradually pride was replaced by fear. For what if she were to contact Clifford, only to be told that he no longer wanted her in his life? How would she cope with that? It was sobering to discover that she had come to identify herself as much by her illicit relationship as she would have by marriage. Without Clifford, she was — what? A rather ordinary, fifty-something spinster who lived with her mother and sold socks and handkerchiefs. How dull. How terribly ordinary.

  And yet, did she love Clifford? Did she truly love him as she once had? Certainly in the beginning, she had been very much in love with him, but over the years, things had changed, and now she wasn’t so sure. Mavis’s heart had never been broken; now she wondered whether it was in Clifford’s power to break it. Certainly if he were no longer a part of her life, he would leave a huge gap, and she would miss him sorely. But was that the same as love? Or was there also an element of fear that if he were to go, no one else would ever want to fill the vacancy that he left behind him, that no other man would ever want her?

  By the end of the second week, Mavis had almost resigned herself to her situation. She would have to concentrate on her job and looking after her mother, and get used to a life without Clifford — a life that would be without interest, without the little outings that punctuated her otherwise humdrum existence, and above all, without sex. She got out the little box from under her bed and looked longingly at the device inside. Would it ever be called into service again? She knew that women used these things on their own — Clifford had told her that that was what they were designed for — but the very thought made Mavis blush. No, she couldn’t possibly do that. Besides, the Catholic Church had strong views on the subject of solitary sex, and old principles die hard. She climbed into the loft and hid the box in an old trunk, where it would waste away over the years among the cobwebs and the dead flies and the dust.

  The very next day, Clifford phoned.

  “Shall we go to Dennis’s?” he asked as though nothing had happened. “Would you like me to take you to Dennis’s?”

  And forgetting all her doubts, Mavis replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Oh yes!” she said, her whole being glowing with relief. “Yes, please!”

  Gabs

  Gabs had a problem.

  She had always prided herself on a relatively trouble-free existence, for she was not by nature a worrier, and such problems as she did have, she tended to keep to herself. On this occasion, however, she decided to confide in Steph.

  “I think I’m falling in love,” she said, leaning on a kitchen worktop and watching her sister stirring something complicated in a saucepan.

  “What?” Steph dropped her wooden spoon and hugged Gabs. “Thank heavens for that! Oh, Gabs! I’m so happy for you! I knew it would happen eventually, and now of course everything will change, and you’ll have to —”

  “Steady on. Not so fast,” said Gabs, pushing Steph gently aside and rescuing the spoon. “I haven’t told you everything.”

  “Well, go on, then. Tell me. Who is he?”

  “Are you ready for this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it’s Father Augustine.”

  There was a very long, very shocked silence.

  “But you can’t!” Steph cried when Gabs’ news had sunk in. “Gabs, you can’t. You just can’t!”

  “Oh, but I can.” Gabs dipped her finger in the saucepan and licked it.

  “No, you can’t. He’s a priest, our curate. He’s only just arrived; he’s hardly had time to settle in.”

  “And he’s celibate,” said Gabs helpfully.

  “And he’s celibate. Besides — oh, Gabs — he’s so young!”

  “Yes, isn’t he?” Gabs grinned. “Bloody gorgeous, too.”

  “Gabs, this isn’t a game. You can’t do this to him. It isn’t fair.”

  “I’m not doing anything to him,” Gabs said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “How did you meet him? You never come to church.”

  “He sat in on one of Father Cuthbert’s meetings once. Heaven knows why. Probably some mad idea of the bishop’s. Anyway, I’ve seen him around, and we nodded to each other. Then I bumped into him in Boots the other morning, and I just knew.”

  “But you don’t know him at all.”

  “Maybe not. But I intend to.”

  “Have you even spoken to him?”

  “I asked him the time.”

  “How original.”

  “Steph, don’t try to be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “You can’t suddenly decide you’re in love when you barely know the other person. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Ah, but I know men. I’m a very good judge of men. And trust me, Steph, this one is special.”

  “I know he’s special,” Steph wailed. “We all think he’s wonderful. So please, Gabs, keep your hands off him. For my sake, if not for his.”

  “I would if I could,” Gabs said, and there was genuine regret in her voice. “But he’s the one. I’m certain of it. It’s just tough that he happens to be a priest.”

  “Not tough. Off limits. Absolutely off limits.”

  “No one,” said Gabs, “is off limits.”

  “Married men are. You always said you’d never pinch another woman’s husband.”

  “True. But this is different.”

  “No, it’s not. He’s married to the church. He’s a bride of Christ.”

  “Oh please, Steph. Don’t be so pompous.”

  “I am not being pompous! It’s the truth. It’s what he’s been training for all these years. He has a vocation. But of course, you wouldn’t know anything about vocations, would you?”

  “If he decides that his vocation is the most important thing in his life, I shall certainly respect it,” Gabs said. “Don’t worry. I shan’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. That’s a promise.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Steph said. “I don’t trust you one little bit.”

  “And I don’t blame you.” Gab sighed. “I’m not sure I trust myself.”

  To be fair to Gabs, despite her words to her sister, she did try to put Father Augustine out of her mind, but as everybody knows, the harder you try not to think of something, the more it keeps edging its way back into your thoughts. As she led Gerald round on his lead, as she spanked Anthony (never Tony; always Anthony) and frolicked on a waterbed with a well-known cabinet minister, she thought of Father Augustine. His fresh young face, his clear and surprisingly deep voice, his dark hair and eyes, and (strangest of all) his transparent integrity — all of these haunted Gabs’ thoughts by day and her dreams by night. There seemed to be no getting away from him.

  “You’re not yourself today,” Gerald grumbled as he squatted on the floor barking.

  “Sorry. I’m just a bit tired.” Gabs shook h
erself (the dog thing seemed to be catching).

  “Do you mind if I die for the queen? That’s one of my favourites.”

  “Go ahead,” said Gabs dreamily.

  “But you’ve got to watch,” Gerald said. “It’s not the same if you don’t watch.”

  Gabs watched.

  “And — and tickle my tummy?”

  Gabs tickled his tummy. But her heart wasn’t in it, and Gerald was upset.

  “I’ve paid extra for today, and it’s not — I’m not —”

  “Getting your money’s worth?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, you’re very good and everything, and I don’t know anyone else who’d do what you do, but still…”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Gabs smiled and patted his head. “Come on, then, good dog. Good dog, Gerald. Walkies? Shall we go for nice walkies?”

  “That’s better.” Gerald beamed. “I’ll go and fetch my lead.”

  On her way home, Gabs told herself that Steph was right. She was being ridiculous. She hardly knew Father Augustine, and besides, there were lots of other men out there. She should know. If Steph was annoyed that she had “picked on” a Catholic priest, Gabs was even more so. Of all the men she’d come across — many of them very nice, intelligent, presentable — why this one? What was it about him that she found so irresistible? After a long, honest look at her feelings, Gabs decided it was largely due to his unavailability that Father Augustine’s charms outshone those of any other man she’d met. Those men she came across were mostly by definition available, at least for most purposes, and if she was honest, Gabs had to admit that there was a part of her that despised them for that. Father Augustine was different. He also represented a challenge. Gabs had never been one to turn her back on a challenge.

  But it wasn’t just Father Augustine’s lack of availability or even his physical charms that had got to her. There had been a moment at Father Cuthbert’s when she’d caught his eye, and she had been struck by something in his expression, which was a mixture of attraction and reproach. And looking away, Gabs had done something she’d hardly ever done in her life before. She had actually blushed.