Her door rattled again, only gentler. Anthony edged in slowly, carrying a china cup and saucer, and smiling. ‘Here you are, beautiful. You’ll miss my cuppas when you’re away.’
‘I will.’ Cathy smiled up at his glistening brown eyes. He was still her sweet husband and she did love him dearly, but at times he was a pain. ‘Thank you, darling. I don’t think tea will be readily available in the mountains.’
‘Exactamundo! But I could pop some teabags in your case.’
‘Yes, good idea. Thank you, darling.’
‘Anything else before I watch Jeremy Kyle?’
‘I’m fine, honest,’ Cathy said. She jumped up suddenly and moved over to the bookcase. ‘Actually, I came across that sudoku book you were looking for if you’ve done the crossword.’
Anthony reached out and took the book from her hand. ‘Ah, thanks, love. I might do some after Jeremy.’
Cathy sat down, resting her elbows on her desk with her head in her hand. She listened to the door close. ‘Right – focus,’ she told herself. ‘Roll on Boxing Day and Switzerland.’
Angie
Scratching the upper right side of her torso, Angie Ricci raced from her car to her front door. As she opened the door, despite it being the middle of winter, aromas of summer soared up her nose: garlic and lemon infused with fresh herbs. She poked her head into her spacious shiny kitchen and her husband Robbie peered up from the chopping board where evenly sliced juicy tomatoes lay. A grin lit his cheeks.
She pursed her lips and kissed the air. ‘Hi, sweet, this is a nice surprise. Smells delish! I’m just going to run upstairs and take off this bra. It’s been driving me mad all day.’
‘No rush,’ Robbie said waving the knife before resuming his task. ‘I’ll pour you a glass of wine.’
‘OK, I’ll jump in the shower then.’
Angie dashed up the stairs to her newly fitted bedroom which, with its floor-to-ceiling mirror wardrobes along one wall, reflected twinkling orbs from the other side of the river in the distance. Closer, a light shining from Ginny’s home, just down the valley, brought a smile to Angie’s face. Not long now and she and her beautiful friends would all be together.
Stripping off an oversized navy fleece, she slipped three edamame beans into her mouth that slid from her pocket onto the bed. They reminded her to pack some of her supply for the journey and the trip. They were difficult to get in the smaller shops even though veggie food was more freely available. Munching, she stripped off her pale blue T-shirt and threw it on the bed too, before removing the offending undergarment. She inspected it before stepping closer to the mirror and raising her arms. Instantly she scowled at the red rash-like swelling on her smooth light brown skin.
‘Nasty bra,’ she mouthed, reaching for a bottle of moisturising cream on a chest of drawers and pressing the top to release the liquid balm. ‘I hope you’re not going to aggravate me when I’m skiing,’ she moaned to the sore on her torso. As she massaged the cream in, relief surged, soothing her. Had she been at her own health centre on any normal day, she would have had the opportunity to change, but promoting on a stand in a bustling local shopping mall all day on Christmas Eve, alone, it had been impossible. Wiping it so that all the cream disappeared, Angie then removed her leggings, trainers and socks and seeing a long, lean reflection, posed with a pout.
‘Looking hot, babe,’ she praised, admiring the recent changes. Her body was the best it had ever been, with a sleek tone and definition she had always envied in younger women.
‘If only I could notch off twenty years of real time,’ she told her reflection. Not that she hadn’t always kept herself fit. Since joining the WRENs at eighteen she had trained as a PT instructor. It was the one thing that gave her the identity she craved, being a biracial child in the Fifties. Later, as the UK became more multicultural, she grew proud of her heritage. Unlike her mother, who never felt London had embraced her. Her dear, now departed mother had sailed from Barbados to train as a nurse and met her father at a stall on Greenwich market where he was selling ladies’ fashion.
Her father had also passed. She recalled his claim that he was instantly struck by her mother’s exotic beauty and didn’t care that his neighbours gossiped or crossed the road to avoid them. He was happy, and prejudice had never entered his brain. Angie relished the colour of her skin now and appreciated the fact that its texture remained taut, even on her face, and had aged without too many creases or wrinkles. Many a time compliments had been forthcoming that she could be thirty-something, despite now being sixty-two, a little older than her besties.
After a quick shower, and another soaking of moisturiser, she towel-dried her thick black curls and slipped on one of the oversized shirts that she left undone at her breasts, before she returned downstairs to the kitchen.
‘Sorry,’ she said, reaching up to Robbie on tiptoe and pecking him on the lips. ‘That bra was grinding under my arms all day. I think I’ll just pack my sports bras for skiing.’ She perched on one of the stalls at the central island where Robbie had prepared the salad, rubbing her hands together and inhaling the Mediterranean fragrance.
‘Haven’t you packed yet?’ Robbie asked turning to her as he reached in the fridge for the salad dressing he’d prepared.
Angie splayed out her hands in wonder. ‘When have I had time to pack?’ she asked, spotting a small bottle of nail varnish submerged among satsumas and Granny Smiths.
Rob shook his head from side to side. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re going to pack when everyone’s here tomorrow. Danny and Matt will probably tolerate it, but you know Jonty will moan.
‘Of course not. I’ll do it later. After dinner,’ Angie stated. She unscrewed the nail varnish top. ‘I’ve started piling it, ready.’
‘You really need to start delegating. You can’t do it all.’
‘It’s not that easy, Rob,’ she said, brushing a thin layer of the ruby-red lacquer on to her thumbnail. ‘There’s nobody at the centre who knows about promoting or marketing. Any more than me anyway.’
Rob flicked his greying thick fringe from his forehead. ‘Get a professional in then. Surely it will pay for itself. The rate you’re going, you’ll run yourself into the ground.’
He made it sound so simple, but marketing personnel were so expensive. Only in the last few years had the business been turning a good profit and she was squirrelling that extra money away in the hope of buying a little bolthole somewhere warm – a winter hideaway she and Robbie could escape to if ever they had free time.
She watched as Rob tossed sweet potato wedges over on the hot oven tray. ‘Anyway, don’t lecture me about delegation or managing my time or myself. I manage to work and keep myself in tip-top condition – you’ve surely no reason to complain. I could certainly give some of those young actresses you watch a run for their money. Anyway, I waited for you last night. Did you watch another film? Horny as a rig worker I was.’
Angie had always been conscious that men would look elsewhere for gratification; after all, she knew only too well what her father got up to when he took ladies to try on dresses in his van when he worked the markets.
‘I fell asleep, I’m sorry. I still need a shower and a shave actually. I was late for work and I’ve been busy.’
Angie sighed. ‘Yes, I can see that. So why are you cooking? I could have popped into M&S or John Lewis for a meal deal.’
Rob