‘It’s hard work being a national sportsman’s wife. Even on holidays I have to be well turned out, because of the paparazzi. For our last spring break in Barbados I bought ten bikinis.’
I pointed to the breakfast table and scraped my hair back into a scrunchie that was in my jeans’ pocket. Melissa brushed some crumbs off a stool and sat down. Didn’t she have just the perfect life? The golfer’s wife had matched all my expectations about celebritydom. I couldn’t wait to see inside her home.
‘Do you see much of the national birdies?’ I said as she rested her bag on her lap. I put one of the mincemeat brandy butter cakes on a plate and passed it over.
‘Only when the tournaments are on. I’m still a bit new to the group. Luke Donald doesn’t live far away, though. His wife’s really into art…’
‘Diana Donald’s gorgeous-looking,’ I muttered. During the Open, Starchat had done a page on the best-dressed golfers’ wives.
‘It’s her Greek roots,’ said Melissa and shrugged. ‘Ian Poulter’s wife, Katie, is okay too; used to be a nurse.’
‘They sound… normal,’ I said. ‘Not like footballers’ wives.’
‘I suppose most are – although Sam Torrance’s wife used to be a film star. Another is a show jumper.’
I wondered what Melissa used to do. The magazines never spoke about that.
‘Napkin?’ she said.
‘Of course.’ Oh dear. Kitchen roll would have to do.
She picked up the cake and smelt the buttercream icing before prodding the marzipan holly leaf with a long nail. Then she took the biggest bite ever and, in slow motion, chewed. I took this opportunity to scrutinise, up close, the first celebrity I’d seen for real. She had a smooth forehead, no crow’s feet, manicured nails, non-existent roots, tattooed eyebrows in an immaculate arc and spotless skin, as well as full lips, perfectly outlined and glossed. What a goddess. The camera didn’t lie, not if you had access to all the top cosmetic procedures and products.
‘Try this,’ I said and passed her one of the Cranberry and Orange ones I’d made at Adam’s. But I almost dropped it upside down when she put the kitchen roll to her lips and… Did she spit out my cake?
‘Is there a bin in here?’ she asked and I pointed to one of the cupboards. Had I been fooling myself? Were my non-celebrity friends and family too kind to tell me that actually, my cooking was pants?
She helped herself to another piece of kitchen roll and took a big mouthful of the Cranberry and Orange one, then did exactly the same again – chewed slowly, before spitting it out.
‘They are fabulous – with the light texture, irresistible flavours and so pretty.’
‘But you… I mean I thought…You spat them out!’
‘Spat?’ she looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no! That’s a trick I learnt from the American wives. It’s just a different way of eating – none of the calories but all the taste.’ She sighed. ‘I love those girls, over the ocean. What amazing lifestyles… They’ve all got indoor cinemas and outdoor barbeques the size of your average council flat. The captain’s wife, Tulisa, has just got planning permission for an underground nightclub at their ranch. And talk about great hair, sensational nails… Rumour has it, they all even co-ordinate their underwear. Whereas the English birdies…’ She grimaced. ‘Once we were trying on some free jogging outfits, a sponsor handed out – a couple of them don’t even match their own bras and knickers.’
‘Really?’ I gasped. Surely everyone followed that rule? They needed to buy my bible, Cut-Above-Couture. God forbid they wore tights with open-toed sandals or black with navy or brown.
‘They haven’t even all had Brazilian waxes,’ she continued. ‘How unhygienic is that? But then I suppose they’ve had an uphill struggle, this side of the Atlantic. I try to tell myself it isn’t their fault, if they think we should look inconspicuous. It’s all that British tradition, all that Old Boys stuff.’
‘Huh?’
‘Women are to be seen but not heard at the golf club. It’s a haven for the men. Some still won’t serve anything in a skirt at the bar, unless it’s tartan and hiding more than a frilly thong.’
‘Well, I’m sure the local golf wives will love the Botox.’ The most generous thing I’d laid on for my friends was a night of chick flicks and face packs.
Melissa half-smiled. ‘I’d better get going. Jonny’s bringing his son home for supper.
‘His ex-wife lives near, doesn’t she?’ I said, hoping my knowledge would prove myself a real fan.’
‘Jeanie?’ Melissa’s voice went funny. ‘Yes. Lovely lady. Done, um, a great job of bringing up Eddie. He’s very polite for a teenager.’
All the magazines said how well Melissa got on with the first Mrs Winsford. Amazing, really, since Jonny left Jeanie for her.
‘Anyway, must go, darling. They’ll be home toot sweet.’
Ooh, I wished I could speak French like that.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow? Are you free?’
Oh my God. She was going to invite me round for lunch!
‘Um…’
‘Get your people to speak with my people,’ she said.
‘That would be great!’ I said and beamed. Oops. Reality check. ‘Um, except that I don’t have “people” – I… I prefer to sort stuff out myself.’
‘Really?’ She pulled a face. ‘Okay. Let’s say half past nine sharp. My guests will be here at ten.’
How exciting! What would I wear? And… Huh? Guests? Ah. I got the impression that didn’t include me. But yay! Cue a mental image of me jumping up and down! That meant I’d got a catering contract, for a bunch of ladies being treated to Botox. But boo! It didn’t give me long to prepare.
‘How many are going?’ I asked, forcing my voice to steady.
‘Six wives.’ She yawned. ‘Let’s see if I can remember all the details: the captain’s wife, Vivian, sixty-ish… one of the few wives who plays golf. Her best friend Pamela, who’s also heading for retirement…’ I listened as Melissa gave descriptions of all the guests. ‘And finally Saffron…’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Saffron?’ I grinned. ‘Haven’t cooked with that for a while. You don’t like her?’
‘Bit of a bitch. In my position, three types of ordinary people step into my world: those in awe, those indifferent and those insanely jealous, like Saffron. Her boyfriend, Steve, is a new member. They recently got engaged. He gets on well with Jonny. She’s a receptionist, in a car sales room, I think, and always loaded with some snide-y comment. At the Centenary Ball last month she praised me loudly for wearing last season’s shoes, what with the recession. Then she questioned what I did all day, whilst most of the other wives work. I only invited her tomorrow because the others seem to like her. She’s very young; brings out the older women’s maternal instincts. Jonny thinks I mad for asking her.’
‘Why?’
‘He must have heard her digs about me not having a proper career. He knows how much time it takes networking and supporting everything he does.’ She beamed. ‘So, enough about her. I’m looking forward to a good selection of cupcakes – and yes, a Christmas theme would be fab. Maybe a few skinnies. Everyone’s driving so cut the alcohol.’ She put on her shades. ‘Although, no – why should I miss out? Those Pina Colada ones sounded good. Nothing beats the flavour of a cocktail. Maybe call them Santa Coladas…’
‘But I haven’t told you how much they cost…’ I said, practically clapping