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Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read
Trisha Ashley
First comes marriage. Then comes divorce. Then it’s every woman for herself …When Charlie’s husband Matt tells her that he wants a divorce she has to start from scratch. Suddenly single, broke and approaching 40 she is forced to return to her childhood home in the Yorkshire moors.Living with her father and eccentric siblings could be considered a challenge but soon Charlie finds her new life somewhat refreshing. Now that she’s single she’s got no need to dye her roots nor to be the perfect wife and she can return to her first love- painting.But just as she begins to feel settled, handsome, bad-tempered actor Mace North moves in down the road and starts mixing things up for Charlie in more ways than one …Every Woman for Herself is a hilarious account of divorce and dating from Sunday Times besteller Trisha Ashley. Perfect for fans of Katie Fforde and Carole Matthews,the country setting and rom-com storyline make this the perfect summer read.Praise for Trisha Ashley:‘One of the best writers around!’ Katie Fforde‘Full of down-to-earth humour.’ Sophie Kinsella‘A warm-hearted and comforting read. Trisha at her best’ Carole Matthews‘An absolute delight. Every Woman for Herself is a laugh-out-loud read that leaves you feeling pleased with the world’ Take a Break



TRISHA ASHLEY
Every Woman For Herself



Dedication (#ulink_ecdba73f-d51f-57bf-ba49-b2d8da347521)
For my father, Alfred Wilson Long, with love.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u08bce5b4-d720-51f3-ad32-b151992c8dea)
Title Page (#u39455b7e-c1c8-5a4d-ab56-3f07119042dc)
Dedication (#u624ddb4f-fab7-598c-b315-31d871c27fd7)
Foreword (#uca70f686-15c5-57cb-9038-98bbf78003bc)
Chapter 1: Alien Husbandry: 2001 (#uf1c16a52-f782-5b85-8945-f6b1265423c8)
Chapter 2: Wrong in the Attic (#ub73c59dd-dd77-59c7-a077-a563aa17e6c2)
Chapter 3: All Panned Out (#u5cc358ad-d9b3-5212-9cce-87405551cc75)
Chapter 4: Sheared Off (#u63ef18a6-52b3-5d54-a394-82cd561b2c59)
Chapter 5: The Prodigal Daughter (#u282d2133-d543-53d2-9dd0-ced0696efcb8)
Chapter 6: Pesto in the Kitchen (#uabf01b79-e5e6-53c8-ba64-de6827cf825d)
Chapter 7: Enlightenment (#ubca35d85-f126-5704-9498-eb7c611ede5f)
Chapter 8: Dangerous to Melons (#u4406aced-1b59-5055-813e-0024238e93ba)
Chapter 9: Nature in the Raw (#u4e31f985-bf42-5c82-a6ad-968b4f203a62)
Chapter 10: Small Change (#ua2afa5fc-9ac1-5ab0-a230-c1162302bbde)
Chapter 11: Parting (#udb19f5fb-5418-5f72-9bca-67236774e735)
Chapter 12: Jumbled (#u79269a4a-2544-5ecf-b811-5412e55d9a05)
Chapter 13: Jam Tomorrow (#u07f75bed-65f1-5457-816b-470a035bc2bc)
Chapter 14: In Combat (#u5dc166bc-d2b0-5b61-b813-25502d403989)
Chapter 15: Taken Out (#ucaeab933-84a4-59c5-a8e8-747c449a98e6)
Chapter 16: Going Hairless (#u1a07aa22-c73b-572d-b975-e5f5ec32bc0b)
Chapter 17: Surprised (#u4d1d5d87-1a6d-57a7-bc9e-a6bc58ec5398)
Chapter 18: Absolution (#u937cc4d5-a562-570a-bb77-b4448da0c1a3)
Chapter 19: Nuts (#u60dd889f-76d0-5419-8380-53b52d3ae226)
Chapter 20: Returns (#u3885c84a-2bfb-5444-94e9-fba281773e1e)
Chapter 21: Home Comforts (#u95f04481-2fc9-50b0-8220-264df3da0c1d)
Chapter 22: First Cuckoo (#uf3eddb1b-014b-5c72-a4f8-004ca7d3d2ea)
Chapter 23: To the Bone (#u29c802bb-140c-5c13-9121-4611bfe33397)
Chapter 24: Strange New Powers (#ua38347f1-e0d1-5d05-8b71-d3183d066731)
Chapter 25: Much Travelled (#u024b6bcf-3145-5a7c-b242-3e96663b05b5)
Chapter 26: Dazed and Confused (#u543c8a93-ce5c-5fa6-8651-24d1003dc80c)
Chapter 27: Present Magic (#u226e3150-4856-59b9-a77f-586511b35f99)
Chapter 28: Snapdragon (#u74973913-f7c7-51d1-9df8-4613edbba8bc)
Recipes (#u1283e38e-2bbc-56fe-a00d-6db7592ecc82)
About the Author (#u24de2676-76f0-58ef-9ad6-67ee66d91087)
By the Same Author (#u3fe8ae39-c831-5dc0-bc24-a12857a7500a)
Copyright (#u97e91362-71d8-5904-a0a5-021034cabe21)
About the Publisher (#u6ebb9056-dd9f-5062-b6f1-c3642926fafb)

Foreword (#ulink_0db6ad95-e4c3-5aa0-b415-a8a89b9e5359)
I’m delighted that Avon are reprinting Every Woman for Herself, because I have to admit it’s still my favourite literary child – and it’s obviously a favourite with readers, too, since not long ago they voted it one of the top three best romantic novels of the last fifty years, a great honour.
I haven’t rewritten it, merely tweaked a couple of errors into shape, brushed its hair and made sure it had a clean handkerchief, so since it was first published by Piatkus in 2002, it’s obviously very much of its time. But then, think how relaxing it will be to visit a remote Yorkshire valley with no phone signal for miles and only a dodgy dial-up internet connection. The Brontë family managed quite well without them and I hope you will too.
Happy reading, everyone!
Trisha Ashley

Chapter 1: Alien Husbandry: 2001 (#ulink_c66275da-c585-5993-bf16-06a131a7dd8d)
Got up at the crack of dawn to kill the Fatted Breakfast before driving Matt to the airport, only to discover that aliens had stolen my husband during the night and substituted something incomprehensibly vile in his place.
I expect their replicator was having a bad day. I distinctly remembered marrying a gentle, long-haired, poetry-spouting Jason King lookalike with a social conscience, but what was facing me over the breakfast table was a truculent middle-aged businessman, paunchy, greying, and flaunting a Frank Zappa moustache seemingly edged with egg yolk: but I knew better. The alien snot was the clincher.
It was not a pretty sight, but fascinating for all that.
I went to peer into the kitchen mirror to see if I’d changed as well: but no, I still looked like a miniature Morticia Addams.
‘Charlie,’ the Matt creature said impatiently, ‘did you hear what I said? About wanting a divorce?’
I certainly had; what did he think had ripped the veils of delusion from my eyes? But I was temporarily deprived of speech as almost a quarter of a century of married life flashed before my eyes in Hogarthian vignettes: Flake’s Progress.
The inner film came to a jerky halt. ‘Yes,’ I said finally, nodding. I understood.
Unfortunately my memory was not of the selective kind, a cheery sundial remembering only the happy hours, so my recollections were freely punctuated with loss. Lost mother, lost virginity, lost babies, lost husband, Lost in Space.
Charlie Rhymer, this was your life.
For some reason, Matt seemed disconcerted by my reaction. ‘We’ve grown apart since I’ve been taking these foreign contracts, and I’ve come to realise that this will be best for both of us. In fact, we can divorce right away, since we’ve been separated for more than two years.’
‘How can we be separated when you’re here?’ I asked, trying to get my head around this concept.
‘But I’m not really here, am I?’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m in Saudi.’
‘But you’re back for quite long holidays between contracts – and you said it would be better if I stayed here.’
‘You would have hated it – you know you don’t even like leaving the house, let alone the country.’
‘But that’s just York – it’s got the wrong sort of outside. I’m fine at home.’
‘This is your home.’
‘I meant Upvale, and Blackdog Moors.’
‘You seemed eager enough to run away from it with me.’
‘That was love, and unplanned pregnancy, and Father.’
Matt said earnestly, ‘Charlie, it isn’t that I’m not still fond of you …’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘In fact, thank you for having me.’
He ignored that; I’m not sure he even heard it, like most of the things I say.
‘It’s just that I’m not getting anything out of this marriage,’ he continued.
‘You make me sound like a bank. What were you expecting to get out? More than you put in?’
‘At least there are no children to complicate things,’ he said, which was a very low blow. He was starting to make me feel quite sick.
‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, Charlie, but we really can’t go on. I’ve been offered a long contract in Japan, and I can’t afford to continue maintaining two households.’
‘But the house … the mortgage?’ I said, my brain starting to limp onwards a bit, now the first shockwave had broken over my head. ‘What will happen?’
‘The divorce will go through quickly if we’re both in agreement – my solicitor will send you things to sign. Then I’ll pay you maintenance every month, so you won’t have anything to worry about. The solicitor will get in touch with you and explain everything.’
‘Will he? Is that what you’ve been doing this week, organising our divorce? Why didn’t you talk to me about it, instead of suddenly handing me a fait accompli on your last morning home? After all, I haven’t done anything, have I?’
‘No, you haven’t done anything,’ he agreed curtly. ‘Perhaps that’s just it. I’ve moved on, and you haven’t. Other women have families and careers and interests. Perhaps now you’ve turned forty, it’s time you got out there in the real world.’
I’d been cocooned for the twenty-three years of my married life, and now suddenly I was to be ripped from my chrysalis and told to make like a butterfly?
He rose from the table. ‘I’ll ring you from Saudi, once you’ve had time to think it over.’
Questions were already beginning to bubble scummily to the surface, like: when did he see this solicitor? How long had he been planning this? What does he mean, he’ll give me maintenance? Was there some other woman behind this? Who on earth would want him?
‘Hurry up and get the car out,’ snapped Alien Nation in a reasonable impersonation of my husband, ‘while I get my bags.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got a plane to catch. It’s time to go.’
It certainly was. I went into the conservatory, locking the door carefully behind me. Although it was so tiny, once I was in the middle where my easel and table were, you couldn’t see me for jungle plants.
Palms, bamboo and bananas, and a fig tree in a big pot … Dense foliage and warm, slightly steamy, air.
Matt banged on the glass a few times like a deranged moth, shouting, but I disconnected, picking up a brush and carrying on painting the tiny, naked, cowering figure at the heart of the rampant forest. It looked like Steve, the handsome young gardener at the park, and something threatening was definitely lurking in the undergrowth.
Probably me: I often had lustful thoughts about him when I went there to sketch in the greenhouse, but in reality there was not enough cover to drag him behind, even were he willing – and it was one of those ironic facts that as you age you lust after fewer and fewer men, and those are the very ones who wouldn’t look twice at you. When my last birthday date-stamped me forty, I knew the writing was on the wall.
I really should have sown my wild oats before I got married, because I feared it was now too late.
Sometimes, too, I wondered if my body wouldn’t have rejected my pregnancies if they hadn’t been fathered by Matt. Now I knew he was an alien, perhaps, I thought, our genes were incompatible.
Too late for that, as well.
Much later I resurfaced to the sound of a familiar loud thud and yelp as Flossie, my spaniel, attempted to walk through the glass door again. But at least if she’d come out of hiding it meant Matt had finally gone.
Flossie was not big on brains, but she had grasped that Matt hated her, and it was safest to keep out of his way. Of course she forgot sometimes, especially when overcome by greed, like the previous morning, when she was drooling over his feet at breakfast, and he kicked her when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Afterwards I went up to the bathroom and gave all my big silver rings a vigorous cleaning with his toothbrush and a bit of powdered floor cleaner. The rings came up a treat and I expected his teeth would, too.
Flossie now sat in the dining room outside the conservatory door, looking dazed, though this is not unusual. She wagged her tail happily when she saw me coming.
The breakfast debris still littered the table, and Alien Nation had left a note pinned down by the teapot that said he’d had to call a taxi, and if he missed the connection it was my fault.
There was also the name and address of the solicitor who would explain everything to me.
I wished someone would.
Why did I never seem to grasp anything until a couple of years after it had happened? I never knew where I was going, only where I’d been.
As Joni Mitchell says, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. I only knew what I had to start with.
Or did I only know what I thought I had to start with? Or did I have what I thought I had, but had somehow swapped it for an alien? Could living with me for so long have turned him into an alien?
He was right about one thing – he’d changed, but I didn’t think I had very much.
Clearly, that was my mistake.
I took stock of my innermost feelings and discovered there weren’t any: I was a blown egg, all shell and void.
You might have heard the sea if you’d put your ear to me, but that was about it.

Chapter 2: Wrong in the Attic (#ulink_7eb1d0e3-6c4e-5037-b6e1-adba030897c7)
Lay awake all night with my mind doing hamster-in-wheel impersonations, then came groggily down the following morning to find a letter from Matt’s solicitor.
Wasn’t this indecently fast? The letter said that since Matt and I were in agreement (were we?) and there were no children of the marriage, I didn’t need to have my own solicitor: just sign on the dotted line when asked to, and don’t make a fuss.
The only good thing Matt’s sudden bombshell did was to make me realise that he had turned into an alien, and an elderly one at that. Otherwise, who knew how long it would have taken for me to realise that I was beginning the slow trek through that long, rocky hinterland before fifty, hand in hand with a grumpy old man? (And as Sherpas go, he’d have been no Tensing.)
A day or two later Matt phoned, his usual bossy self, and basically instructed me just to do as I was told, and he would see me right financially.
That would be a novelty.
And there was definitely an underlying threat there …
I’d finished the painting: miniatures of looming menace, my speciality.
When I lived on the moors among all those vast spaces I painted long, narrow landscapes where tiny figures were set like random jewels. But once transposed to the claustrophobia of a city (even one as beautiful as York), I began painting ever-smaller canvases in which the minute figures cowered under threatening jungle foliage.
They sold quite well through Waugh-Paint, a local gallery. Vaddie Waugh, the owner, said it was because they were so small that they were easily portable. Or maybe people just liked having something small, dark and threatening hanging on their walls?
I hadn’t told anyone about the divorce yet because it didn’t seem real. And anyway, there was only really the family to tell, and frankly I didn’t want to phone home and confess that not only had I failed in the motherhood stakes, I’d also failed as a wife.
The solicitor had explained everything to me, but it all slid away from my grasp immediately. All I understood was that financially we are up Shit Creek without a paddle, so there was no point in my fighting for half the house or a huge chunk of maintenance. The maintenance Matt did propose giving me was a pittance, though combined with my painting earnings I thought I would survive: Remittance Woman.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep the house, but the only thing I’d regret leaving was my conservatory. I’d have to return home to the Parsonage at Upvale – but where could I put my jungle? I couldn’t paint without it any more.
I’d have to find some kind of job, and a house of my own if I could afford it, because much though I loved going home, it would be difficult to do it permanently after having my own place for so many years. I could live on my painting, but it would not pay a mortgage.
Having looked around the house, I found it totally amazing what Matt had removed without my noticing before! Still, I didn’t wish to keep ninety-nine per cent of the household contents anyway, since they were never my choice, and in fact were as alien to me as Matt now was.
Perhaps it could all go to one of those auction houses that take anything, though I supposed I’d better ask Alien Nation if he wanted to keep any of it first – that is, if he ever phoned again. He’d gone from checking up on me every other night (although after all these years he must have known I was either here or in Upvale), to one solitary, admonitory phone call.
A couple of weeks after the discovery that Matt was an alien, I opened the door to a most unwelcome visitor: Angie, raddled bride of Matt’s best friend and colleague, the revolting Groping Greg.
‘Angie! What are you doing here? I thought Greg’s contract didn’t end for another three weeks?’
Of course, had I known she was home, I wouldn’t have opened the door without checking who it was first, from the upstairs window.
She pushed a bundle of magazines and a box of chocolates into my arms. ‘These are for you,’ she said in the hushed tones of one visiting the sick. Then she trailed past me into the house, exuding a toxic effluvium of sultry perfume and nicotine.
If you dipped Angie into a reservoir it would turn yellow and poison many cities.
I followed her into the living room, where she draped herself into one of Matt’s minimalist white leather and birch chairs. She looked surprisingly comfortable, but then, she’s all sinew and leather herself.
‘I had to leave Greg out there and come home early, because the cleaning service said we had weird noises in the attic. But anyway, after Matt told us about the divorce, I just knew you’d fall apart! And since you’ve got no friends except us, I said to Greg, “I’d better get back and help poor Charlie.”’
Angie was not, and never had been, my friend. Her presence was about as welcome to me as a tooth abscess.
‘I’m not falling apart,’ I assured her, which I wasn’t, because nothing lately had seemed at all real. I wasn’t sure if I’d been living in a dream world for years and just woken to reality, or vice versa. Sleeping Beauty in her jungle. ‘Actually, I feel more as if I’m imploding – hurtling inwards on myself. There’ll be a popping noise one day, and I’ll have vanished, like a bubble.’
‘You poor thing! There, I knew I was right to come back. But look on the bright side, darling – you and Matt are having a friendly divorce, so it will go through really fast. Then he’s going to pay you maintenance, although I don’t suppose you’ll need much because you’ll just go back to that insane-sounding family of yours. Did you see your sister Anne on the news last night? There were bullets flying around her head, and she just kept on talking.’
‘Emily – my older sister – has second sight, so she knows Anne’s invincible to bullets. And I don’t know why you say my family’s insane. Matt was keen enough to marry me once he found out who Father was, even if he can’t wait to get rid of me now.’
‘Anne, Emily – and your brother’s called Branwell, isn’t he? What were your parents trying to do, breed their own Brontës?’
‘Yes – well, Father was, anyway. He thought if he recreated the hothouse environment and we didn’t become literary geniuses, or Branwell became the literary giant, it would prove his point. You know – like in his book: Branwell: Source of Genius?’
From her puzzled expression, clearly she didn’t know.
‘And Charlie’s short for Charlotte, of course. When the experiment palled on Father he sent us all to the local school, and although Em didn’t mind being known as Effing Emily, I got very tired of being Scarlet Charlotte the Harlot. My family always called me Charlie, anyway.’
‘Weird!’ she muttered again. ‘I suppose you will go back there?’
‘I’ll have to, but I can’t just return as if the last twenty-three years never existed.’
Though, when I did visit home it felt as if I’d never left. Everything was the same: Em running the place and striding the moors composing her lucrative greeting-card verses, Gloria and Walter Mundi haphazardly doing the housework and gardening, Father writing his infamous biographies and installing his latest mistress in the Summer Cottage, Bran and Anne turning up on visits.
And the moors. Nothing ever changed on Blackdog Moor except the seasons, that was what made me feel so safe there and so very unsafe here in York.
‘You can get a little job, can’t you?’ suggested Angie. ‘You’re not too old.’
‘What as? Besides, I might make enough from my paintings if I exhibited more.’
‘A London gallery, that’s what you need.’
I shuddered. ‘Oh, I couldn’t go to London! I’m a country girl at heart and hate big cities.’
‘Don’t be such a wet lettuce,’ Angie said impatiently. ‘It’s time to stop being a shy, mimsy little wimp once you’re past forty.’
I gave her a look. I may be reserved, stubborn and quiet, but I plough my own furrow, as she should have known by then. I’m an introverted exhibitionist. Why should I like crowds? I’m simply not a herd animal.
No one could accuse Angie of being mimsy or shy. She’s at least ten years older than I am, but her hair was dyed a relentless auburn, she wore eyelashes like tarantula legs, and her face had had every cosmetic art known to science applied to it at one time or another. Her body was lean, brown, and taut, except for the crepe-paper skin.
Flossie wandered in from her basket in the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at Angie and sneezing violently, before climbing onto my lap and regarding my unwelcome visitor with the blank expression only Cavalier Queen Charlotte Spaniels can assume. I’m convinced they are the result of an early failed cloning experiment.
‘At least there are no children to dispute custody of,’ Angie said, staring at Flossie.
I’d learned not to look upset when people said this sort of thing to me, as if I hadn’t desperately wanted children. ‘No, there is that, and Matt has always hated Flossie, so we won’t be disputing over her.’
‘So everything’s all right? Matt says the first part of the divorce will go through in a couple of weeks, and six weeks after that, it’s finalised. Isn’t it quick?’
‘That’s because I didn’t contest anything – I haven’t even got my own solicitor – and we can’t go for mediation because we’re in different countries.’
‘Matt says you don’t need a solicitor, because the house is in his name, and remortgaged to the hilt anyway, and there are lots of debts, so there isn’t much to share. But I’m sure he will be generous with maintenance. You’ll be fine.’
‘Yes, though I do suspect any mildly generous impulses he has now will dwindle away, like in Sense and Sensibility.’
She looked blank.
‘You know, Angie, where the widow and her daughters were going to be looked after by the son who inherited everything, only the allowance sort of dwindled away to the present of the odd duck?’
Angie isn’t much of a reader. She carried on staring at me with her mouth open for a full minute.
‘The odd duck?’
‘Not literally, in Matt’s case. How could he send me a duck from Saudi? Or Japan, which he’s supposed to be going to next. What an awful lot of students want to learn English.’
‘Just as well – and Greg’s been offered a Japanese contract too. I quite fancy it.’ She looked around her vaguely. ‘What are you doing with everything? You can’t take it all back with you to Upvale, can you?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t want to anyway – I’ve never thought of most of the furnishings as mine. They’re all Matt’s choice, and most of them were already here when we married. There’s very little we chose together. Unless Matt wants any of it, I expect I’ll sell it. There are places that come and pack it all up and take it to an auction for you.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think you get much for it. Doesn’t Matt want it stored?’
‘Apparently not. He must have been plotting this long before he came home for his last holiday, because he’d already removed all his personal stuff into storage without me noticing.’
‘You’re not the most observant of women, are you? Head in the clouds. Or the plants.’
‘I might want a few bits and pieces, because I don’t think I could live at home again for very long, not after living in my own house for years. And I need somewhere to put my plants.’
‘I don’t think Upvale sounds very exciting. Matt said it was just one steep cobbled road like a Hovis advert, with three streetlights, half a dozen houses, your Parsonage, and a lot of dirt tracks leading to farms.’
‘There are a lot more houses than that in Upvale, but they’re spread out. And the only cobbled bit is about a hundred yards in front of the pub.’
‘I didn’t know there was a pub. Civilisation!’
‘Yes, the Black Dog, after the local legend. There’s Blackdog Moor, too, haunted by this huge, hideous fanged creature, with blood-red eyes and jaws dripping with—’
Angie shuddered. ‘No more, please. What with noises in the attic and demon dogs I won’t sleep a wink tonight all on my lonesome.’
‘Oh, yes – the noises in the attic. Are you haunted, Angie?’
She should have been, by the ghosts of all the creatures who died in animal experiments on cosmetics.
‘No, it’s squirrels.’
‘Squirrels? You’ve got squirrels in your attic? What colour? Those nice little reddish Squirrel Nutkin ones, or the big grey ones?’
‘What does it matter? They’re all vermin, and they’ve chewed to bits the furniture I’ve stored up there! Squirrels! They’ve eaten all the wooden parts of the chairs, and the grandfather clock, and a nice tallboy. I suppose I’m lucky it isn’t rats, which is what I thought when I got back on Wednesday and heard all those funny thumping noises. Isn’t that what you’d have thought, Charlie?’
‘What?’ I said, dragging my mind back from my own problems with some effort. ‘I’m the madwoman in the attic, I think, or will be. Perhaps I should join your squirrels.’
‘Who mentioned madwomen?’ she demanded crossly. ‘Do concentrate, Charlie. The little tree rats have eaten all the lovely furniture Mother left me. I mean, what am I going to say to the insurance company? “Squirrels ate my furniture”?’
‘“Weasels Ripped My Flesh”!’ I exclaimed, perking up. ‘I’d forgotten all about that song, but my eldest sister Em used to play it a lot years ago.. Wasn’t it Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention? Or no – maybe it was Jethro Tull. Those were her two favourite bands so it must have been one of them.’
Angie sighed. ‘Not weasels, squirrels,’ she said in cold, clipped accents.
What a matron she would have made if she hadn’t got off with Greg and left the nursing profession! Or a wardress.
‘Sorry, it just reminded me of that song and … but do go on. Squirrels ate your furniture?’
‘Yes. Grey ones.’
‘How did they get in? There must have been a hole somewhere.’
‘A tiny one, but they found it. Still, I expect the insurance will pay up in the end.’
‘Unless squirrels are an act of God, Angie.’
‘Don’t be silly. How can squirrels be an act of God?’
‘You never know. When our garden wall fell down that time, they said it had been undermined by moles, and that was an act of God, so—’
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ she asked warily.
I smiled encouragingly. ‘I expect they’ll pay up – and what a shame about that furniture. I really liked some of it, especially that knobbly triangular chair. Although bottoms aren’t that shape, are they? And with all those bits sticking out it wouldn’t have been very comfortable, and although it would fit right into a corner of a room, you don’t usually want to sit right in the corner, do you? So I expect you can replace it with something more practical when you get the money.’
‘You do go off at a tangent.’
‘I’ll have to go off altogether, Angie – I’ve got my hairdresser’s appointment.’ Which I absolutely loathe; but my roots were showing.
‘That dead-black Goth look with the dark eye make-up and purplish lipstick is very out of fashion,’ she said, scrutinising me severely.
‘I know, but Matt insists, and—’
Suddenly I realised that it didn’t matter any more what Matt liked or didn’t like. He wouldn’t be here to throw a major wobbler if I stopped dyeing my roots, wearing heavy black eye make-up and vampire-style black clothes …
It was a look that seemed less and less me as I got older. I mean, it was what I was into at seventeen, when I ran off with him, but I didn’t think I’d be stuck in a timewarp forever afterwards.
But now I could do what I liked.
‘I can do what I like,’ I told Angie, brightly.
‘You always did,’ she said sourly. ‘Wasn’t that part of the problem?’
‘Only in the major things, the ones that mattered, like the painting. In little things Matt had it entirely his own way. And I hadn’t realised we had a problem.’
I was about to add that until the morning Matt asked for a divorce I hadn’t realised how old he was either, but just managed to stop myself in time: like Angie and Greg, Matt was a good ten years older than I.
Greg was an awful, red-faced old roué who tried to jump on women the moment he was alone with them. He was Father’s type, I suppose, but without the leonine good looks – and Father did go in for his mistresses one at a time, as a rule.
‘Greg will be home in a couple of weeks, if you want any help,’ Angie offered.
‘Oh, no thanks, Angie,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’
Her eyes fell on the stack of magazines she’d brought, and she pounced on the top one. ‘Now, what’s that doing there? I didn’t mean to bring that old copy of Surprise!. I only kept it because it had photos of that gorgeous Mace North in it.’
‘Who?’
She exhibited the magazine, and I scanned the man on the cover with no recognition whatsoever, although his was a very distinctive face. His slightly oblique, hooded dark eyes seemed to be staring back at me assessingly (and probably finding me wanting).
‘You must know him! He’s a well-known actor, and he’s got this deliciously plummy voice, a bit like Jeremy Irons.’
‘You know I don’t watch much TV. But it sounds an unlikely combination with that face,’ I commented. ‘He looks a bit – barbaric.’
‘It’s the Tartar blood.’
‘Oh? I thought tartar was something you found on your teeth,’ I said disagreeably.
‘Not that sort of tartar – it’s a place in Russia. Mongolia? The High Steppes, or Chaparral, or something? His great-grandmother was a Tartar and that’s where those fabulous cheekbones come from, and the come-to-bed eyes …’ She gazed at the magazine and sighed. ‘He’s sort of like a young Bryan Ferry crossed with Rudolf Nureyev.’
‘Rudolf Nureyev’s dead.’
‘You must have seen photos.’
‘Yes, but I don’t find men in tights very appealing. I’d never have made Marian.’
After a minute she smiled weakly: Sunrise over Yellowstone Canyon.
‘You will have your little joke,’ she said, hoisting herself to her feet and tucking the copy of Surprise! firmly under her arm. ‘I’d better go and sort out the roof rats. I’ll soon have the little buggers out of there.’
Her car was parked opposite, outside Miss Grinch’s, who would not be pleased, because she liked the front of her house kept clear so she had a better view of what her neighbours were doing. Had Angie been a man visiting me while my husband was away she would have been straight across with a milk jug or sugar bowl to try to catch me out in some imagined misdemeanour.
I don’t think I’d ever done anything to surprise her – I must have been such a disappointment. You’d think she’d have lost interest. Apart from Angie and Greg, Matt’s friends didn’t bother me when Matt was away, and if Greg came to the door when I was on my own I’d pretend I was out.
I always checked from the landing window first, after one nasty experience soon after I married Matt, when Greg found me on my own and was horribly overfriendly in a near-rape kind of way.
He was even like that in front of Angie at parties, but she didn’t seem to mind particularly. Maybe she thought he was all mouth and no action. Maybe he was all mouth and no action when it came to the crunch – I didn’t intend finding out.
When she’d gone I finally phoned Em, the Ruler of Upvale Parsonage, told her about the impending divorce, and asked if I could come and live at home for a while.
‘OK,’ she said.
‘Will you tell everyone? Father?’
‘He’s always thought Matt was a waste of space. Anyway, he won’t be very interested – he’s got a new mistress.’
I groaned. ‘Is she in the Summer Cottage yet?’
‘Not yet. She’s renting a house down in the valley. But she’s always round here, and they’re all over each other. It’s revolting. And she’s got twin little girls who sit about giggling. She leaves them here when she goes out with Father.’
I supposed it was better than leaving them in an empty house, but not much – Em didn’t like children, so she wouldn’t see their presence in the house as being anything to do with her.
‘He’s never had one with children before, has he?’
‘No, unless you count Bran’s mother, and that was unintentional. He’ll probably get tired of her, if she won’t move into the cottage. You know how he likes everything convenient.’
‘Flossie says hello,’ I told her.
Em’s voice immediately softened to a medium baritone that was positively sugary. ‘Give her a big kiss on her shiny black nose from me, and tell her Frost can’t wait for her to come and live here.’
Flossie was petrified of Frost, a giant grey lurcher with questionable habits (a bit like Father, really), but I appreciated the sentiment.
‘I will – and thanks, Em.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘You’re just – there.’
‘Where else would I be?’ she asked, sounding puzzled.

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