Page 52 of A Wish For Wilma
Darn. She’d been and gone and said it. Where was a muzzle when you needed one? Vicious dogs and ageing grannies had a lot in common: an inability to keep their gobs under control.
‘Wilma…’ Gus reached over the bowl of gloop and took her hand. ‘Shirley is doing my head in. She’s in the spare bedroom, but she wafts around giving me come-hither looks. And I reckon she’s bought up Majorca’s entire stock of see-through negligees — as if I can’t see right through her. We are not getting back together. She can beg and plead and dwell on the past, but I left for a reason. And now I have a reason to stay.’
Wilma’s hand trembled at Gus’s touch. He didn’t know the depth of Shirley’s desire to reunite. The woman had a mission and Wilma reckoned she’d stop at nothing. Probably just as well she’d returned the Quality Street: one of the wee blighters might have been laced with cyanide.
‘Are we on the same page, then?’ Wilma smiled at Gus. ‘Though it’s definitely the final chapter, unless we’re blessed with an epilogue.’
‘Oh, we are. We absolutely are.’ Gus leaned over and kissed Wilma.
She hadn’t been kissed — notproperlykissed—in a long, long time. This wasn’t a chaste peck or an annoying mwah-mwah. Lips met lips, and it felt like coming home. But she pulled away first. ‘Isn’t there a rule about oldies snogging?’
‘That wasn’t a snog.’ Gus laughed. ‘Snogging was invented in the 1970s. Youngsters then did things with their tongues that we’d never imagined back in the old days.’
‘Oh, I think you’re wrong.’ Wilma stuck out her tongue and hoped it wasn’t wine-stained. ‘We did lots of things back when we were young. Well, some of us did.’
‘You’ve always been a wee rascal,’ said Gus. ‘Your Eric was a lucky man to marry you, though I imagine he had his hands full with your mischievous ways.’
‘How dare you,’ Wilma retorted, her lips still tingling from their kiss. ‘I was a paragon of virtue during my wedded life. Well, apart from the smoking, the drinking and a fondness for seedy bars with sticky floors and yellow-stained walls.’
They took their glasses and the remaining wine into the lounge. Wilma offered to fix Gus cheese and crackers but he declined. ‘My appetite’s taken a nose-dive. Let’s just sit and hold hands and make plans. We could take another mini break? Somewhere warm and sunny in the new year, perhaps.’
‘As long as it’s nae Majorca,’ quipped Wilma. ‘I hear Ibiza’s the place to be for clubbing.’
Gus poured the last of the wine into their glasses. ‘I was envisaging something more sedate. My dance-hall days are far behind me.’
Wilma tutted and wiggled her legs in an approximation of a seated dance move. Her left ankle clicked and her right knee twanged. She’d not be strutting her stuff any time soon.
Gus patted her knee. ‘She who should not be mentioned used to drag me into clubs until a few years ago. She called me an old fart for resisting.’
Wilma felt a desire for Gus to rub Deep Heat into her knee. Not the most romantic of gestures, and the room would stink like a gents’ locker room, but hey-ho. ‘Did you resist?’
Gus massaged her knee, his firm touch unleashing dormant emotions.
‘The last time I set foot in a club was around the time we split. A nice enough place, but…’
‘Please continue. Both with the massage and the story.’
Gus grinned. ‘Shirley waltzed in first, as per usual, done up to the eyeballs and fluttering her lashes at warp speed. I trailed along, thinking I looked quite presentable, until…’
‘Until what?’ Wilma waited. She knew the punchline would be worth it.
‘The wee neb on the door — ill-fitting suit, bad shoes and breath to match — looks me up and down and says: “You’ve had too many.” I’d had a couple of shandies, so I give him the right-back-at-you glare.’
‘And did he let you in?’
Gus creased up. ‘Nah. I said “You mean drinks?” and he said “Birthdays, mate.”’
‘Cheeky so-and-so.’ Wilma joined in the laughter and Gus kept his hand on her knee. It felt soothing: a panacea for all that ailed her. The achy bits that accompanied old age, the sadness when news of a contemporary’s death arrived. Like skittles they fell, but Wilma had outlived so many. And now…
‘Wilma.’ Gus’s voice broke through her reverie.
‘Yes, Gus?’
‘You realise I’ve sunk half a bottle of wine.’ Gus pointed at his almost-empty glass. ‘Driving home isn’t an option, but I can call a taxi or an Uber. Do you get many Ubers round here?’
Wilma had no idea. The only Uber she recognised was the mega-famous Über Jean, whose collaborations with young Archie had launched his musical career into the stratosphere. ‘Don’t be worrying about that. There’s a bed here — the spare one, that is — and I have fleecy hot-water bottles. All mod cons and breakfast included.’
The atmosphere in the room amped up a notch. By rights, Wilma should be sipping a mug of cocoa and watching something soothing, or fiddling with her crystal collection, not getting hot and bothered by Gus’s presence. Could she wish for them both to be much younger for one night only? No, that was a stupid idea. Anyway, DJ wasn’t around to grant a wish or play gooseberry to two old fools who should know better.
