Page 19 of A Clean Sweep
Despite her good intentions, she found herself slathering several crackers with home-made hummus. A bit too much garlic and not enough lemon juice. Gulping down a glass of water she eyed the Greek semolina cake she’d picked up at the patisserie. Revani, to give it its proper name. Susan was quite sure book club would give a resounding thumbs-down to her choice –Beyond the Blindfold –but she thought some Greek-themed food might make up for its shortcomings. Even by her standards it had been pretty atrocious. The writer clearly thought she was reworkingShirley Valentine, when the truth was she would struggle to make the cut in one of the teen-romance stories Susan had devoured in her bedroom when she wasn’t doing her homework. Usually whilst she worked her way through a packet of biscuits. Just a small slice of cake, just to try. It was delicious. Of course it was. Everything always tasted good until the revulsion kicked in.
Checking she had enough wine glasses laid out and opening a couple of bottles of red and white, Susan thought about what she’d seen – or rather,whoshe thought she’d seen – as she’d left the patisserie. It was just the briefest glimpse of a man speeding past on a bicycle, a blur of colour before he disappeared around the corner. But it had been enough to quicken her heartbeat momentarily and she’d stood on the pavement for at least a minute in case he came back. Looking back now she berated herself for her foolishness. Jonathan was long gone, probably happily married with an adoring wife and adorable children. No less than he deserved. A man like him deserved so much more than a woman like her. She’d made the right decision – of course she had – and lived with it every day since.
‘Fabulous cake,Susan, did you make it yourself?’ Nancy Edwards was uncharacteristically chatty this evening, perhaps because of the third glass of wine she’d knocked back in under half an hour. Normally she drove to book club but apparently her son, home on a rare visit from Canada, had dropped her off along with Esther who lived a few doors away.
‘No, it’s shop-bought but Ididmake the hummus although I’m not too impressed with it. And I have to confess I wasn’t too impressed with the book either, sorry.’ Susan looked apologetically at the ladies who were all occupied with filling their plates and glasses.
‘Oh, it wasn’tthatbad, although I thought the sex scenes were a bit tame to be honest. I’d expected a bit moredetail, if you know what I mean. In my experience …’ Celeste had stopped suddenly, a look of what could be construed as embarrassment on her face. Strange, thought Susan. Had she been about to reveal intimate revelations about her sex life with Michael? She barely knew him but he always struck her as a bit old-fashioned and stuffy; not the kind to get experimental in the bedroom, anyway. Still, there was no telling what people got up to in their private lives, was there? Just because her own was relentlessly dull didn’t mean others might not be more adventurous than surface appearances suggested.
Emily was peering at her Kindle, her face screwed up in concentration. Despite only really knowing her through book club, Susan liked her and wished they could become friends but didn’t know how to make that happen. Why would someone as pretty and popular want to be friends withher? She tried her best to fit in at these meetings but always felt like the mongrel in a gathering of pure breeds. The fat kid sitting on the sidelines while the cool kids sashayed on by, barely acknowledging her existence.
‘I quite liked the bit when Martha and Demetrios went on the picnic and got bitten alive by ants just as they were getting on with it!’ said Emily brightly. Both Nancy and Celeste nodded in agreement, whereas Esther – who hadn’t even pretended to read the book – looked blank. Susan sighed and cut herself another slice of cake. Maybe it was time to boost the book club numbers, not that she had a bulging contacts list to draw upon. Before she’d joined there’d been around eight or nine members but several had dropped out for varying reasons.
Before she could make the suggestion, Celeste had taken centre stage, any further discussion of the book replaced by potentially far more entertaining gossip.
‘Believe me, those two’ll be in the divorce courts before the month’s out,’ she decreed to her captive audience.
‘But they always seemed such a nice couple,’ said Nancy. The couple in question were Janet and John Jones, known locally for being members of the local amateur dramatic society and holidaying every year in Tuscany. John worked for the local council and Janet was a part-time librarian with a penchant for steamy bodice rippers. She was one of the book club drop-outs, in fact, citing ‘too many other things to do’ as her reason for quitting.
‘Ha, she certainly did have other things to do!’ said Celeste, eyes glittering as she was reminded of Janet’s excuse for leaving. ‘Like having her own bodice ripped open by Stan Woolford on her days off!’
Susan was vaguely familiar with the name. A local handyman, he had once called at her house to put up a few shelves. She couldn’t remember much about him, only that his price was reasonable and the shelves hadn’t fallen down.
‘It all began when John hired him to put in a new shower. Apparently, the old one dribbled so badly they had to run around inside the cubicle just to get wet,’ Celeste continued. ‘He finished that job two months ago but I see his van outside theirs at least twice a week. And I’mquitesure it’s not the plumbing he’s tinkering with.’
Moving off to the kitchen to stick the kettle on, Susan felt sorry for Janet. Listening to Celeste there didn’t appear to be a lot of concrete evidence of her alleged infidelity, just hearsay and supposition based on the presence of his van. Which might be completely innocent, after all. Perhaps they’d struck up a friendship and he popped in for a cuppa now and again? Not that he’d ever popped in to hers after the shelves were fitted. And – if they were having an affair – his van with ‘Stan – The Man Who Can’ proudly painted in bold blue letters was hardly the most discreet mode of transport.
Having taken orders for two cups of green tea, a decaf coffee and more wine for Nancy – making the most of her chauffeur for the evening – Susan returned to the living room. She passed one of the green teas to Emily who thanked her profusely. She even patted the sofa seat next to her, gesturing to Susan to sit down.
‘It’s been a lovely evening, Susan. And what a great idea, choosing food to match the theme of the book. No pressure on the rest of us, eh!’
Always vivacious and generous in her actions, there was something undefinablydifferentabout Emily that evening. Susan couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was like … like she’d been lit up from the inside, a low-wattage bulb replaced by a Hollywood-style spotlight. It was as if, on the surface, she was a willing participant in the light-hearted banter, whilst deep down something else was occupying her thoughts. Agoodsomething, judging by the way she smiled at random moments. Whatever was distracting her, it gave her a glow that no amount of make-up or restful nights’ sleep could achieve.I wouldn’t mind some of that,thought Susanwistfully. Her inner glow – if she’d ever really had one – had long been extinguished.
Tidyingup after the ladies had departed, Susan wondered – not for the first time – if she should move away. Pack in her job, sell the house and start somewhere new. Maybe a place by the sea. Some of her happiest childhood memories were of trips to the seaside with her parents. Donkey rides, building sandcastles or simply floating in the water and daydreaming for hours on end. Perhaps a change of scenery would inspire her to change her whole life. She could work in a shop or a café, take up a new hobby like painting or pottery. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself sitting on a little wooden deck with a brush in her hand, adding details to a simple landscape of sand and surf. She could try again to lose weight; perhaps it would be easier in a different environment? Away from people who knew her or at leastthoughtthey did. She could reinvent herself – no more sad, fat Susan – and become the person she had to believe existed somewhere inside. She imagined herself running (or at least, jogging) along miles of shoreline with the wind in her hair and happiness in her heart.
OK, who was she trying to kid? Drastic life changes demanded courage which was something she lacked, along with willpower and a sense of self-worth. Over the years – as her weight ballooned – her confidence had shrunk. Other people could start afresh, take on whole new identities but Susan knew she was stuck in a rut too deep to escape.
Turning on the TV she flicked aimlessly through the channels. Yet another programme about would-be dieters being put through their paces by an ex-military sadist; a soap opera – who knew which one? – featuring a delightful inceststoryline, and a more appealing comedy-drama about a famous writer’s upbringing on a Greek island. Settling for this one she cut herself another slice of cake and poured a glass of wine. Another hour or so and she’d head to bed. Where sleep offered her a few hours’ respite from the mundanities of her existence.
Chapter 13
Meryl was merrily whizzing her Hoover around her flat, ABBA’s greatest hits blasting out in the background. She hummed along contentedly, pausing only to gulp down a mouthful of her fennel tea.Sogood for the digestion, even if it reminded her of liquid liquorice.
Cleaning her small pad took very little time. Situated directly above the shop, it consisted of a decent-sized master bedroom; a tiny guest room that doubled up as her office; a combined lounge cum dining area and a galley-style kitchen. There was only one bathroom with an overhead shower and access from both the main bedroom and living area. Small but cosy, it suited Meryl perfectly and she had done her utmost to stamp her personality all over it. Twinkly fairy lights festooned the place all year round, luxurious velvet throws in shades of chocolate and maroon were artfully draped over her cream leather sofa and chairs and the walls bore an eclectic mix of prints and photographs that added a splash of colour throughout. Her lighting was subtle, just afew table lamps with low-wattage bulbs. It might not be a palace but it was hers and she didn't even have to worry about driving to work every day.
The main reason for today's domestic duties was that Miroslaw was coming round for dinner that evening. It was a Sunday and the only day that The Little Shop of Treasures was closed. This would be their sixth date and Meryl was more than a little nervous. Not that she feared anything bad would happen – he had always been the perfect gentleman – it was more a question of if something 'good' might happen. So far, they'd kissed several times, latterly with infinitely more ardour and a hint of tongue. Which meant sex could well be on the cards, although she suspected he would wait for her to give the green light. Was she ready? She wasn't completely sure. It had been a few years since her last relationship which had been a bit of a damp squib, both of them plodding on with half-hearted enthusiasm until they mutually agreed they had little in common. Her online dating experiences had nearly put her off men for life until Miroslaw came along. She certainly found him sexually attractive and she did miss feeling wanted and desired in that way. And she was only forty-eight – yes, she did fib a little about her age – and not ready to settle for a life of celibacy and only singing Swedes for company.
Switching off the vacuum cleaner Meryl straightened a couple of cushions and gave the room a liberal spray of Seduction, one of a range of essential oil blends that were very popular in the shop. She'd light a few candles this evening too, both to set the mood and ensure she looked her best. She'd picked out her outfit already. An old favourite, a silky black top with a sequinned trim around the neckline coupled with wide-legged black trousers that disguised the odd lumpy bit. She had considered putting on her control pants to suck in the aforementioned flab but decided againstit. They were the most hideous-looking item of underwear she possessed, and took about ten minutes to wriggle into. And probably a good half hour to remove, by which time Miroslaw would have given up and gone home, defeated and deflated by their utter lack of sex appeal. Nope, she'd stick to her old faithfuls which could be whipped off and tossed aside in the time it took for him to strip off his boxers. Or his G-string. She prayed fervently it was the former.
After a quick shower, Meryl was ready to hit the shops. She'd chosen a simple menu, big on taste but easy to prepare. Miroslaw was keen on cooking so she wanted to impress, but equally didn't want to end up a sweaty and stressed heap in the kitchen. So it was smoked salmon salad with a crème fraiche dressing to start, lamb cutlets with leek mash and mustard sauce for the main and tarte citron from the high street patisserie. With coffee and brandy to finish. Or to set the scene for some postprandial hanky panky.
It was a crisp and clear day as Meryl strode purposefully around town. She'd picked up the starter and main ingredients in the supermarket, along with a decent bottle each of white and red. At least, she hoped they were decent. She always went for the deeply scientific method of choosing the ones with the prettiest labels. Just the dessert to deal with and she could head back with hours to spare before show time.
‘A tarte citron, please.’
The patisserie was busy as always, Meryl reaching the front of the queue after a good ten-minute wait. They were open seven days a week and produced a mouth-watering and calorific selection of sweet treats that could derail the most dedicated dieter. She didn't mind. Desserts had never really been her speciality and their selection was always top-notch. As she paid and accepted the proffered plastic bag containing its lemony sinfulness she noticed anothercustomer she vaguely recognised. A plump lady standing by the shelves of hand-made petit fours, lifting up one box, then another. She looked distracted, distressed even, her movements jerky and her hands shaky as she selected then rejected the choices. Who was she? And how did she know her? Then she remembered. She was a friend of Tabbie's mum. She'd met her once or twice when Tabbie had invited her back to the family home. If she recalled correctly, on one occasion it had been just before book club, which Emily – Tabbie's mum – hosted from time to time. They'd had to run through some possible new stock items for the shop and had decided to have a quick tête-à-tête at her mum's because Tom was hosting a boys' night and made it clear that women were categorically not welcome. Unless they came bearing six packs, takeaway pizzas and the promise of a pole-dancing routine.
‘Susan? Hi, you probably don't remember me but I'm Meryl. Tabitha's boss? I run The Little Shop of Treasures. We met at her mum's, Emily's, a while back. And some other time, I'm sure, but anyway… Are you OK?’
