Who Needs Men Anyway? Read online

  The waitress left and I saw her come out of the back, tying a black apron around her tiny waist. She was quite pretty, which I hated to admit, and on closer inspection, I’d estimate her age to have been around twenty-eight. Still a good ten years younger than Megan and very attractive. She pottered behind the counter and I caught her eyeing the door every now and then, obviously looking out for him.

  I sipped my surprisingly rich coffee, fixing my eyes on the entrance to the tile shop. Just before nine o’clock, the door swung open and Mike walked in before he’d even gone into the tile shop. Coffee and a kiss before work? My heart rate picked up as I watched him glide over to the counter, keeping my head down so he didn’t recognise me.

  ‘Good morning.’ He elongated the word ‘good’ in a way that made my skin crawl. His sugar-sweet smile was enough to bring on type-two diabetes.

  ‘Hey you,’ she said shyly. I couldn’t see her, but I knew if I could, she’d be twirling hair around her finger and kinking her knee coquettishly. I fixed my gaze on the window to appear dismissive of their exchange.

  ‘I missed you yesterday,’ he said quietly. I imagined him tracing his finger across her hand.

  ‘I missed you too.’ In my mind, she was looking up at him from beneath long fluttery eyelashes. It would’ve been a sweet exchange if it wasn’t for the next part.

  ‘Megan is out this evening and I have the house to myself if you want to come over. The client she’s visiting has a two-hour slot and always keeps her chatting afterwards.’ I don’t, for the record. Just as he finished speaking, two builders came in, talking several decibels above what was necessary. Frustratingly, I missed her reply.

  ‘Come about six,’ I just caught him saying as his words travelled through the sneeze of a workman. I drank the last of my coffee and left.

  ***

  I got on top of all my chores at home, preparing the veg for a stir-fry dinner, ringing the handyman to come and look at the gate and finalising the details for my charity brunch. I just had the small matter of ensuring I’d still have some guests attending. By 6 p.m. I was in my gym gear, twiddling my thumbs with boredom when the intercom buzzed. I took a deep breath. For my plan to work, I had to time it right so that his company had arrived before I sent Megan home, without leaving it too late that Megan missed her again.

  ‘Hi, Megan,’ I said heavily as she approached the door, laying the foundations for my excuse.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked, picking up on my tone.

  ‘Just, you know, that time of the month,’ I lied, lowering my voice.

  ‘We can reschedule if you like?’

  Not a chance. ‘No, you’ve come all this way. Let’s see how I get on.’

  We walked through to the gym and she went easy on me for my warm-up, choosing to put me on the bike as opposed to giving me a few minutes’ worth of jumping jacks. As it approached six-thirty I started to slow down, momentarily clutching my stomach here and there.

  ‘Actually, Megan, I’m sorry but can we stop? My cramps are getting worse and I’ve already taken the maximum dose of painkillers. I’ll pay for the full session of course,’ I said, bending over to rest my head on the handlebar for effect.

  She looked at me sympathetically. ‘Of course we can, but you don’t have to pay,’ she said, but I knew she needed the money and it was worth it to save her from cheating Mike so I thrust it into her hand and held up a finger to shush her when she tried to protest. She reluctantly left just after six-thirty after I told her she needn’t fill my hot water bottle or run me a bath. It was perfect timing.

  I spent the rest of the evening cleaning anxiously. I needed to stay busy so I made up the guest bedroom with new bedding, even though Janine the cleaner had done it recently and it hadn’t even been slept on since we never had guests to stay. I cleaned the oven and reorganised the fridge.

  Every now and then I checked my phone, not that I expected Megan would call me in the event of her whole life falling apart. Maybe I hoped she would. I played out the scene in my mind: her returning home early to find them in bed together, having to drag the girl out of her home then throwing out all of her fiancé’s clothes after cutting holes in them or setting them on fire on the front lawn or something. I wondered if I should go round, but that would’ve been overstepping the mark so instead, I paced the kitchen until James came home.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, kissing me on the forehead as he came in.

  ‘Nothing, I’m just hungry. I was waiting for you, hoping we could eat together?’

  He replied with a smile and walked over to the wine fridge, pulling out an unopened bottle of Villa Maria. Without asking, he poured us both a glass of crisp Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and handed me one, obviously aware I was tense.

  ‘My mother said she’d pop round tomorrow,’ he said casually.

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. ‘Wonderful.’ A night of defending my own self-worth. I forced a smile. His mother had an opinion on everything and a tendency to be overbearing. She’d never said it but being from a wealthy, traditional family herself, she hated the ‘nouveau riche’, as she called anyone wealthy who wasn’t from old money – and I suspected that’s how she saw my family. Not that my family were even that wealthy or anything; my dad had just done ‘all right’ as her family had, just generations before. My parents spoke in a broad, local dialect, a trait I’d initially inherited and quickly adjusted in an attempt to fit in at school. They didn’t have degrees or ‘high-society standard’ social etiquette and always loved a good bargain, which horrified Frances. But if she’d ever given them a chance she’d have witnessed their kindness, generosity and sense of fun.

  I think she’d always hoped that James and I were just having a fling and that he’d one day miraculously come to his senses and marry someone of higher social status but since that hadn’t happened she’d accepted her fate and thawed slightly. She’d gone from deep-freeze to refrigerator – meaning I could now breathe and speak in her presence, but it was still hard work through the chatter of my teeth.

  ‘I’m working late so I said you’d be around. She’s going to stay for dinner.’

  Typical. There was a time I’d hoped to bond with James’s mother, especially after my own had left to go travelling with Dad, but it hadn’t happened and I was past caring.

  ‘That’s wonderful – I’ll do baked salmon.’ I took a long sip of wine. The crisp citrus taste cut through my tension, and I rolled my shoulders before taking my pre-prepared stir-fry ingredients from the fridge.

  James snaked his arms around my waist and peered over my shoulder. ‘That looks good.’

  ‘So, have you time to eat at the dinner table or shall I bring it through to the office when it’s done?’ I tensed anticipating his reply.

  He peered at his watch and twisted his mouth. ‘Better have a working dinner I’m afraid. You’re so good to me.’

  ‘Of course.’ I tried to keep my body from sagging when everything sunk inside. He did appreciate me at least.

  After I’d cooked the stir-fry and taken James’s up to the office, I sat at the single place setting I’d laid out on the breakfast bar and ate my food dutifully, punctuating each forkful with a sip of wine whilst trying to remain positive.

  ***

  The next morning, I awoke alone with a fuzzy head and the depressing thought of James’s mother visiting. I showered and dressed smartly in an oyster-coloured silk blouse and khaki capri pants and completed the look with my pearl necklace. It was the type of outfit I always wore in my mother-in-law’s company because she was a judgemental so-and-so. James thought it was a dowdy look and I agreed with him, but needs must if I didn’t wish to see a raised eyebrow. I slipped on some gold wedges and the dainty gold Tiffany bracelet that James had bought me for our anniversary the previous year, before grabbing my handbag and heading to the fishmonger’s for a fresh salmon.

  Once I’d got back in my car, my fingers twitched on the steering wheel, fighting against
my better judgement. I wanted to drive past Megan’s house to look for signs of drama: clothes on the lawn, a vandalised Merc . . . Despite being driven crazy with wanting to know what happened, I’d have to wait another day to see her. Instead, I pressed the call button on my steering wheel, rang Kate, and arranged to meet her at a Greek restaurant in Wilmslow for lunch.

  ‘Charlotte, darling, how are you?’ she said, air-kissing my cheeks when I arrived. She was dressed to the nines as she always was, in a pink mini-dress that, thanks to my Vogue subscription, I knew was Valentino. She also had the Valentino Rockstud shoulder bag, of which I was particularly envious because I had the matching sandals.

  ‘You’re looking as glamorous as ever,’ I said. Kate was the type of woman who’d have a Kir Royale for breakfast and a hotdog for lunch. She was gorgeous, wealthy, and did whatever the hell she pleased – James’s mother would call her ‘nouveau riche’ too and Kate would tell her to ‘eff off’.

  She giggled and brushed off my comment with her hand. The waiter came over and took us to our table, predictably sitting Kate down first because she looked more important than I did in my drab mother-in-law-friendly attire. He probably thought she was some glossy celebrity and I was her dull behind-the-scenes assistant.

  ‘So, tell me what’s been happening since I last saw you. Are you . . .’ She circled her hand in the direction of my stomach, not concerning herself with etiquette.

  I shook my head, placing a self-conscious hand across my middle while cursing that brownie I’d eaten at Costa. ‘Not yet. James is busy working a huge case and always comes home late and tired, so there just hasn’t been any time to try.’

  ‘No time to try?’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t got the right underwear.’ She winked. I laughed and shook my head. ‘Dressing like that isn’t helping your cause.’ She looked pointedly at my blouse. ‘I thought it was maternity wear.’

  ‘Frightful Frances is coming over later.’

  She gave me a knowing look. ‘As long as you have something more fun to wear in the bedroom you’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re obsessed.’ I laughed. Kate had landed on her feet with husband number two: wealthy property tycoon and renowned local businessman Carl, who worshipped the ground she walked on. You couldn’t blame him, though – her black glossy hair tumbled down her back, complementing her long, lean limbs. She had flawless olive skin, thanks to Italian heritage on her mother’s side, and although she’d hit her forties, had yet to discover a fine line anywhere on her face.

  ‘What does his mother want anyway?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. To wither my soul, to suck the life from me or to badger me about grandkids probably. That’s her “new thing” to focus on. Since James’s dad died she’s been visiting a lot, and it’s tiresome. She’s discovered a new sense of family and my lucky womb is suddenly part of her vision.’ I paused as the waiter approached and we ordered Greek salads and a glass of champagne each.

  ‘I thought she hated you? So she isn’t still crossing her fingers in the hope James will run off and leave you for some blue-blood horsey type?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, she’s been banging on about grandchildren since James’s dad’s funeral. Maybe she thinks a half-breed grandchild is better than no grandchild at all. Anyway, enough of her. Are you going to Lauren’s ball?’

  ‘Er, no.’ Kate hated Lauren and Carl didn’t play golf so it was a desperate ask at best. ‘I can’t make it anyway; you know I’m down in London that weekend at some presentation thing with Carl.’

  ‘Lucky so-and-so.’

  ‘Not necessarily – I actually have to go with him to the ceremony and not just while the time browsing Liberty and if it’s anything like last time, I’ll spend the night drinking cheap wine that tastes like it’s trying to kill me.’ She winced at the memory. ‘I can’t believe that hideous mare had the gall to move the date to clash with your brunch.’

  ‘I know, but it’s typical Lauren. I don’t know what that woman has against me.’

  ‘Jealousy. Her husband barely has a pulse and still manages to shag half of Cheshire behind her back. You’re happy, you have a gorgeous husband who worships you, and she can’t bear it.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s jealous, I think she looks down on me,’ I said modestly but if Kate was right about the jealousy (I knew she was right about the husband) it would explain a lot and I’d feel sorry for her.

  ‘Why are you even friends with them?’

  ‘Other than you, they’re the only people I know.’

  ‘Just don’t go.’

  ‘We have to – she rang me up to make sure we’d be there, and I really don’t want the whole of Cheshire’s elite thinking James and I are tight-fisted and antisocial. We’ll have to show our faces. Anyway, I have something juicier to discuss.’ I filled her in on my situation with Megan’s fiancé. Kate had met Megan at my house on a few occasions when she’d been visiting while I had a training session.

  ‘Men can be utter pigs,’ Kate said in response.

  ‘It’s not just men, though. Women can be as bad,’ I said diplomatically.

  ‘I suppose, but cheating men are so cliché. Well, I think you’ve done the right thing.’

  But hearing her say that made me question myself. I didn’t often suffer self-doubt, but Kate agreeing wasn’t necessarily a good thing. When we’d watched The Devil Wears Prada a few years back, she thought Miranda was the heroine and Andy the annoying antagonist. Fortunately, she’d mellowed some since then.

  ‘You don’t think I should’ve left it alone?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not. Women should stick together. I’d want to know – wouldn’t you?’ Kate raised her glass, but I didn’t return the gesture.

  ‘We’ll see tomorrow.’

  Chapter Three

  When the intercom buzzed later that afternoon, a feeling of dread engulfed me. On my way to press the button, I checked my hair and make-up. The intercom feed was monochrome and grainy, but James’s mother would still notice if a hair was out of place.

  ‘Hello, Frances,’ I said as I pressed the button, forcing a smile.

  ‘Charlotte,’ she said without a hint of pleasantry. I opened the gate, inwardly cursing James for not being home early, and waited at the door as Frances breezed in.

  ‘James not home?’ she asked, walking straight to the kitchen. Why she couldn’t use a full sentence when she spoke to me both puzzled and infuriated me in equal measure.

  ‘Not yet, he’ll be back a little later.’ I followed her reluctantly down the hallway.

  She heaved two bulging carrier bags up onto the worktop, which I regarded with curiosity. ‘I brought dinner.’

  ‘Oh, Frances, thank you, but I’ve prepared dinner already. You should take that home and use it all another day.’

  ‘Well, James mentioned something about salmon, and I wasn’t sure where you’d be buying it. You can’t guarantee low mercury levels if you don’t know where it’s from.’ She pulled a salmon out from one of her bags whilst I stared on in disbelief. She plonked the fish next to my ready-marinated one and rolled up her sleeves. Heat seared through my chest but I remained calm, for James’s sake.

  ‘What did you use?’ She pointed to my version of a Jamie Oliver marinade.

  ‘Err . . . red chillies, lemongrass, garlic, soy sauce.’ As I spoke, she rummaged in the fridge, pulling out the ingredients as I reeled them off, plus the rest that I was too shocked to recall.

  ‘It looks fairly adequate. I’ll whip something up while you pour the wine.’ Pour the wine – that was the first decent thing she’d said since she arrived. The wine fridge was a particular favourite of mine and James’s, made even better by the fact it was in the utility room, giving me a brief respite from Frances. I poured two glasses and threw half of mine down my neck before topping up my glass and heading back into the kitchen, where Frances was bashing coriander and ginger with the mortar and pestle I’d washed and dried only half an
hour earlier.

  I handed Frances a glass and affixed a smile. ‘That smells wonderful.’ It smelt exactly the same as mine had when I bashed exactly the same ingredients together earlier.

  ‘I’ve just added my own twist,’ she said, but a quick scan of the ingredients revealed nothing different to what I’d used, so I assumed she was referring to the dash of bitterness her personality brought. ‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you alone for a while,’ she added as she proceeded to rub the salmon with the marinade.

  My heart sunk a little. Surely she hadn’t left it until now to offer to pay me off? ‘Oh?’ My stomach knotted tightly – I wouldn’t have put it past her.

  ‘Sit down.’

  I slid onto the bar stool dutifully and waited for whatever it was she had to say. She pushed the salmon to one side, and if it wasn’t for the extra decorative lemongrass sprigs she’d dumped on hers, we’d have been at serious risk of consuming a mercury-laden main course.

  ‘It’s about this baby situation. You’re thirty-six now, Charlotte, and in my day, anyone over thirty was admitted to elderly confinement when they were in labour. In other words, you’re getting old and if you wait much longer, you may be too old altogether.’

  ‘Frances, people have babies well into their forties now. I think times have changed.’ I felt my cheeks burn.

  ‘Perhaps they do, but it’s not happening for you and James and I know it’s what you’ve both wanted for a while now.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘I wanted to suggest fertility treatment. You know, the menopause could be just around the corner. It does happen to some women in their thirties.’

  As I sipped my wine, I had an overwhelming urge to bite a chunk out of the glass. I clenched my teeth as the next best option before mumbling, ‘I will talk to James about it.’ How was I supposed to tell my mother-in-law that the conception problem preventing her from having a grandchild was her son’s lack of sex drive?