Page 20 of A Wish For Wilma
‘Wow!’Gus wolf-whistled when Wilma opened the door to him at six on the dot. ‘Looking the bomb, Mrs Cooper.’
‘What, this old thing?’ Wilma smoothed down the skirt of the two-piece lavender wool ensemble she’d picked out. Persuaded to buy it by Jinnie on a visit to Alison Gale’s boutique in Cranley a few months ago, it had languished unworn ever since. She’d balked at the price, arguing that she didn’t need a posh outfit. Now, looking at Gus’s admiring expression, she sent a silent ‘thank you’ to her persistent granddaughter.
Stepping outside, Wilma looked up and down the street. No sign of his van. ‘Did you have to park somewhere else?’
‘No, I’m right here.’ Gus steered Wilma towards a gleaming black BMW.
‘Bloomin’ heck, that’s a flash set of wheels,’ said Wilma, doing her best to slide onto the beige leather passenger seat without showing her knickers.
‘You didn’t think I’d pick up my date in Vincent, did you?’ Gus clambered in next to Wilma and started the engine. ‘I can heat your seat if you like.’
Wilma didn’t need heating up, but she nodded anyway. As Gus signalled and pulled into the road, she pondered his words.My date. Was that what she was? The last time she’d dated anyone (and the word then had been ‘courted’) was in the fifties. Her then-boyfriend and eventually husband. Ach, it meant nothing. Just a turn of phrase, typical of Gus.
‘Poor Barry was getting a wee ding in the bumper sorted the day of your birthday party,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d have met before.’
Wilma adjusted her seatbelt so that she could face Gus. ‘Call me old and doddery but you’ve just mentioned a Vincent and a Barry, and I can only assume you’ve named your vehicles. Or I’m hearing things.’
Gus grinned, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead. ‘Aye, Vincent the van and Barry the Beemer. I’ve always had a thing about giving cars or household appliances names. It drove Shirley up the wall when I talked about Terry the toaster or Michael the microwave.’
Wilma hooted with laughter. ‘You’re mad as a brush, Gus Brown. I’m not sure I should be heading to the home of someone who names a toaster. What’s the kettle called? Kevin?’
Gus braked sharply as a ginger cat sprinted across the road. He flung out his arm protectively as Wilma lurched forward. ‘Sorry about that. Didn’t want to mow down an innocent kittie.’
‘No problem.’ Wilma straightened up, her backside now as heated as a slice of bread toasted by Terry.
‘Oh, and you were spot on. Kevin the kettle. Anyway, you’ve got a Hoover called Henry, with a face!’
‘He came like that, you daftie!’
They bantered merrily until they reached Gus’s place: a sandstone semi-detached house with a large shingle driveway (currently occupied by Vincent) and a glossy dark-blue front door.
‘Welcome to my humble abode.’ Gus checked he’d locked the car before letting them into the house.
The entrance hall boasted a highly polished parquet floor, partly covered by a boldly patterned silk rug, and an Asian-looking cabinet with intricate lattice work on its doors. A white ceramic pot with fragrance sticks gave the air a sweet yet musky smell. ‘I’m impressed.’ Wilma followed Gus, handing him her jacket — a bargain from Asda — which he draped over the wooden banister.
He led her into the lounge, which was generously proportioned and boasted a chocolate-brown corner sofa, a large TV mounted on the wall and quirky helix-shaped lamps. To the right of the window stood a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and hardbacks. To the left, a stunning painting of a young boy staring upwards, streaks of black on his smooth cheeks.
‘That’s a real conversation piece,’ said Wilma, moving closer to admire the painting. ‘I can’t decide if he looks hopeful or defeated.’
‘I picked it up in Brazil many years ago,’ said Gus. ‘Shirley hated it, said it gave her the creeps. I love it.’
With a glass of wine in hand, Wilma settled on the sofa. Delicious aromas wafted from the kitchen, reminding her of the less appealing aromas produced by DJ. She wondered how Jinnie and Sam were coping, then pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She was eighty-seven, on a date — well, dining with a very attractive man — and nothing else mattered.
Gus had given her strict instructions to relax, stay out of the kitchen and switch the TV on if she wanted to. After surveying the five remote controls on the coffee table, Wilma decided against it. Everyone nowadays seemed to have different gadgets and gizmos giving them access to millions of channels, box sets, and films. Ah, for the good old days when it was a couple of BBCs and ITV — until Channel 4 came along and gave her the gifts ofNeighboursandBrookside. Aww, Charlene and Scott’s wedding day had made her blub, and the Brookie storylines trumped most of the trash around currently.
Checking her phone, Wilma saw she had a new Twitter notification. A new follower, in fact. Her excitement turned to irritation when she realised it was a company promoting wellness retreats for pensioners.
Hang up your Zimmer and find your inner Zen with us. With highly trained staff at your beck and call, we’ll ease those aching joints, put the spring back into your step, and guide you towards enlightenment in the twilight years.
Sod that! Wilma didn’t need a walking frame. Her joints ached, but so did her daughter-in-law’s, and she intended to spend her twilight years having fun. Hopefully starting right now…
‘Dinner is served.’ Gus appeared and gave a sweeping bow, a tea towel draped over his right arm. That reminded her of DJ again.Don’t go there!
‘You’ve pulled out all the stops, Gus.’ Wilma gaped at the dining room, which was small but cosy. A circular table was draped with a pristine white cloth and set with sparkling cutlery and linen napkins folded with military precision. Two plates were piled with noodles and the pork was sliced and arranged neatly like soldiers on parade. Two chairs awaited them. Gus pulled back one for Wilma and topped up her glass.
‘Perfection on a plate.’ Wilma took a mouthful and nodded. ‘You’re a man of many talents, Gus.’
‘Oh, I do my best. Make sure you save some room for crème brûlée. I’ve my blowtorch at the ready.’
