The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
just couldn’t bear it. I tried sleeping on my side and stuffing a pillow corner into the exposed ear, but the terrible noises still forced their way through. Ditto with many types of earplugs: foam, silicone, even wax. ‘Snoring husband?’ asked the woman in the chemist with a snigger, the third time I went in. Apart from the utter wrongness of hearing your own child at it – a child whose Action Man still resides in the house, along with his spy’s fedora hat and the code-cracker’s kit he was obsessed with – it also highlighted how dismal my own love life had become. This was before I’d met Stevie. At that point, I hadn’t been to bed with anyone for almost two years. While I vaguely remembered the various anatomical parts, I couldn’t actually picture a naked man in any kind of realistic way. If this went on any longer, I feared I’d have to study Action Man just to remind myself. But then, Action Man doesn’t have a penis – just an eerie plastic slope – so that wouldn’t have been any help. Anyway, I moved into the box room at the far end of the landing. It’s tiny. That’s fine. I’d rather sleep in a drawer than be subjected to the ecstatic gruntings of a boy who is still barely able to operate a toaster.
Moira is clutching the paperwork to her chest. ‘So there’s that,’ she remarks, ‘a five-day residential course with some fancy chef, what’s his name …’ She peers at the brochure. ‘Brad Miller. Never heard of him …’
‘Neither have I.’
‘But it does sound incredible …’
‘It really does.’ I nod.
She pauses. ‘… Or there’s a cash prize of £5000.’
I stare at her. ‘Really? So I could choose that instead?’
She nods. ‘I’m so proud of you, Audrey …’
‘Thank you,’ I say, folding the brochure and placing it on her desk. Five thousand pounds! Perhaps not an earth-shattering amount to some, but to me? Pretty life-changing. Seriously, I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t utterly broke. My Charnock Richard date shoes were from the PDSA charity shop and I’m forever stretching yesterday’s food to cobble together another meal today. I don’t blame Vince for no longer bankrolling our son, because I shouldn’t either; by rights, Morgan should be making his own way in the world. But the reality is that he’s not, and some months I struggle to make even our perfectly reasonable rent, although I’d never tell Kim this (she’d probably let me off, which would be mortifying).
‘The course is worth twice that,’ Moira adds.
‘Really? I can’t believe anyone would pay that kind of money to learn to cook …’
‘Me neither,’ she laughs. ‘Guess some people have more money than sense. So … have you decided which prize you’ll take? Or d’you need time to make up your mind?’
I muster a wide smile and give the brochure one last, lustful glance. ‘Oh, I’ll take the money of course,’ I say firmly. ‘I mean, I’d be crazy not to.’
I leave school with my outlandish bouquet propped over one shoulder, like a toddler, wondering what to spend my prize money on. Not because there’s nothing I need, but because there’s so much: a new car, perhaps – one that starts every time? I could upgrade our furniture – most of it is quite pitiful, and our kitchen table has a gouge out of it from when Morgan rammed into it on his unicycle. Or maybe I should stash away the cash to avoid further rent panics?
I call Kim to share my news. ‘You can’t spend it on something sensible,’ she declares. ‘For God’s sake, it’s prize money. It’s for something treaty and fun, not a bloody kitchen table or curtains or—’
‘Yes, but—’
‘That’s the law,’ she cuts in, forthright as usual. Kim is a make-up artist: renowned for her ability to beautify not only the bride, but battalions of bridesmaids in record time. ‘You should have fun with it,’ she adds. ‘You’re long overdue a shopping spree, Aud. Why don’t we have a day out?’
‘I’d love to,’ I fib, remembering our last trip to York together, which culminated in her virtually manhandling me into a spray tan salon. My milky-pale skin turned an alarming shade of terracotta, like a plant pot. ‘God, Mum,’ Morgan exclaimed on my return. ‘I hope that’s gonna scrub off.’
‘Sure you don’t want to take the hotel prize?’ Kim asks. ‘Do something for yourself for a change? Or take the cash and blow the lot on a holiday, surprise Stevie …’
I laugh, shaking off a twinge of regret that my boyfriend isn’t the type who’d allow himself to be whisked away. ‘He doesn’t do surprises, you know that. He operates on a strict schedule.’
‘Oh, of course,’ she says dryly. ‘I forgot.’
‘I’ll think about it, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow …’
‘Can’t wait, birthday girl,’ she says warmly as we finish the call. I quicken my pace, deciding it’s not really about the money, although a spree would be fun; it’s the fact I won it at all. Dinner lady of the year! I still can’t figure out what I did to deserve it. This sets me thinking, as I stop off to pick up a few groceries for Mrs B’s: how much longer am I planning to work in a school canteen? Sounds churlish, I know, after the children wrote such lovely things about me. But something about Moira’s speech has lodged in my brain: ‘… Our incredibly kind, hard-working, long-serving dinner lady … here’s to another ten years!’ Bloody hell: I’m 44 tomorrow. Do I still want to be dishing out potato wedges at 54?
Laden now with shopping and flowers, I trudge along the cobbled driveway which cuts across Mrs B’s enormous lawn to her stark, gunmetal grey house. It has the air of an approved school, or a former mansion taken over for governmental purposes. Even the beautiful gardens, the herbaceous borders bursting with colour, fail to raise its spirits. Six of the seven bedrooms are never used – apart from when Mrs B’s daughter, Victoria, comes up from London to pay an occasional visit – and the entire upper floor remains chilly and damp, even on a bright summer’s day. ‘The only way I’m leaving here is in a coffin,’ Mrs B retorted, when I gently asked if she ever planned to downsize.
Spotting me, Paul, the gardener, sets down his wheelbarrow and strides across the lawn. ‘God, Aud,’ he exclaims, ‘they’re beautiful. You shouldn’t have.’ I laugh and fill him in on today’s events. ‘That’s amazing,’ he says, sounding genuinely impressed. ‘You should’ve taken the rest of today off, done something special to celebrate.’
‘I couldn’t really, not at such short notice …’
He smiles, rubbing his five o’clock shadow. When I started working here four years ago – my dinner lady earnings weren’t nearly enough, and being a home help and carer seemed preferable to bar work – Julie happened to mention the ‘sexy gardener’ who’d recently transformed Mrs B’s grounds. I had to admit that the dark eyes, the chestnut hair and general rugged, outdoorsiness of him all added up to one pretty appealing package. ‘Doesn’t say much, though,’ she added. It took a few months to learn that Paul’s apparent shyness was, in fact, just a desire to get on with his work. ‘I noticed you swapped with Julie yesterday,’ he adds. ‘I had a box of veg set aside for you, don’t forget to take them today …’
‘That’s so kind of you,’ I say, meaning it: I am eternally grateful for the virtually limitless supply of produce he supplies.
‘So?’ He grins, squinting in the bright sunshine. ‘Impromptu motorway date, was it?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’ I chuckle awkwardly. Hell, what possessed me to tell him about Stevie’s preferred venues for