On sudden unexpected impulse ask her if she has ever smoked a joint.
She looks puzzled, and then says she did do a smoked ham two years ago, for her Christmas Eve party, but that her husband thought it tasted too gamey. She could let me have the recipe, though. She keeps them all filed in a book, together with a note of when she made them. Apparently Delia told her to do that.
In daze hear myself earnestly explaining. No, I am talking about drugs. Things one should have done in life. Like having sex in public and taking drugs.
See she is beginning to look quite pale, so solicitously offer her a glass of the cooking sherry at back of cupboard. She tries to refuse, but I insist and pour her a glass. Assure her that sitting on floor is quite comfortable, and safer too, since floor is now at an acute angle.
Half an hour later have finished sherry, and the box of red wine left over from a dinner party. Neighbour is looking quite flushed.
Says she is sorry Derek has left.
Tell her I that am not sorry. That I am looking forward to being independent. (One of my life-coach statements that I am supposed to repeat every day.)
Neighbour confesses that her husband has not turned out to be the man she expected.
‘He has his funny little ways, if you know what I mean,’ she tells me. ‘And I have tried to talk to him about them!’
Forcing my expression into one of good neighbourly sympathy and understanding, I listen, and ask if she’d like to talk about it.
To my shock, neighbour bursts into noisy tears and says she’s sick of bloody talking about it. She wants to do it and it has come to that point where she has no option but to take matters into her own hands!
Even though I’m feeling a bit tipsy, I know immediately that this is not a subject I want to pursue. So quickly and v. cleverly change it, and ask artlessly if anyone has moved into posh house at end of road as yet…
Neighbour’s face immediately takes on worrying expression that reminds me of starving wild animal salivating at sight of fresh meat. Explains that A MAN has moved in ON HIS OWN—well, on his own apart from a v. undesirable and obviously out-for-what-she-can-get young female.
Neighbour explains that she’s v. concerned for new man and feels that someone should warn and protect him. She has noticed from seeing washing hung up on line in back garden that he doesn’t know how to hang out shirts properly, and that the plants on his patio need re-potting. She has decided to go round and offer her services.
Comment that I am surprised she has been able to see into back garden, since totally enclosed by ten-foot-high fence. Neighbour confides in whisper that actually she is able to see into garden from her bathroom window—if she stands in washbasin and cranes neck!
Confess to her that I find her sense of neighbourly concern and responsibility truly awesome.
Neighbour returns compliment by informing me that new man wears ‘modern’ you-know-whats.
Takes complicated and convoluted ten-minute conversation to discover she means underpants. I immediately start fantasising about new neighbour all over again—this time featuring in a Calvin Klein ad.
Neighbour is holding out her glass for more wine. Funny how I’d never realised before how much we have in common. Ask her if she has ever considered services of a life-coach.
Start to explain to her what one is, and stop when realise she isn’t listening. Discover that the reason for her lack of response is that she is lying flat out on kitchen floor. Out of sisterly consideration I turn her on her side when she starts to snore.
Wake up from truly horrid dream in which I was sitting on kitchen floor drinking cleaning fluid with dreadful nosy parker neighbour from three doors up whilst sexy new neighbour went through whole strip routine from Full Monty! Thank God it was only a dream.
Phone rings. Pick it up.
Caller’s my niece Georgie. Well, actually Derek’s niece. Actually, she started life as Derek’s nephew, but then in all honesty it never was clear right from the start just what he or she was. We all blamed the doctor who delivered George. Well, he wasn’t really a doctor then, more of a medical student who was the conductor on the bus Derek’s sister Alicia was travelling on. Afterwards, he—Travers—said that if he’d had a son with a widget as small as Georgie’s he’d have been glad to have a doctor claim he was a girl to prevent him from suffering any embarrassment when the boy grew up.
Anyway, it all got sorted out in the end. Georgie had the operation ten years ago, and after that she really blossomed. It’s amazing what hormones and a skilled hair-removal practitioner can do.
Georgie says she’s heard the news about Derek and that she and her partner Erica want to come round and offer me their sisterly support.
It’s Derek’s own fault they’ve taken my side. Derek never did mange to hide his squeamishness when Georgie proudly showed him that jar with the widget in it.
Try to explain that I have pounding headache no doubt brought on by stress and grief. (Which life-coach has told me must be eradicated from my thought processes.)
I try also to remember what I am supposed to chant every morning, but then realise am going to be sick. Dash to the loo, and then realise that I have agreed to cook for Georgie and Erica this evening!
Three hours later am now feeling well enough to go to shops and buy something for Georgie and Erica to eat.
Remembering life-coach’s stern warning that I must not let myself go, and that pride is equal to self-respect, I shower, put on best clothes and make-up.
This has nothing to do with fact that am going to walk past No. 14, of course. Am simply following life-coach’s instructions!
Just get close to No. 14 when I suddenly feel sure I have seen beginnings of a run in tights. I put down basket and inspect my leg, casting surreptitious look towards drive of No. 14 at same time.
Obviously I would have made an excellent detective as I see immediately that expensive shiny black car is in the drive.
Unfortunately I do not see equally shiny and expensive young woman getting out of passenger side of it until hear her exclaim in anxious voice. ‘Oh, Tate, look at that poor woman there. I think she must be feeling ill. Her face looks dreadfully red.’
Mortified, I stand up quickly—too quickly in view of delicate state of stomach. Red face must have been reflection from my skirt, ’cos it now feels very green.
Shiny expensive young woman is even more shiny and expensive at close quarters—bare, tanned legs, tight-fitting denim skirt clinging to the narrowest little hips I have even seen, bare, tanned midriff, thick glossy mane of streaked blonde hair…
Sexy man has protective hand under her elbow—no doubt afraid a breeze might blow her away. I see him frowning as he looks at me, so I make a grab for my basket and walk quickly away.
Suddenly feel very old and lonely—must be the red skirt. Personally, I never liked it. Derek chose it because it was in the sale…
At shops feel so low that am forced to buy huge block of chocolate with milk money, and decide Georgia and Erica will have to make do with spag bol from freezer.
Punish myself by walking long way home, so that I don’t get to go past sexy man’s house.
Get home and spend rest of afternoon getting ready for Georgie and Erica’s visit.
Drink glass of red wine whilst cooking spag bol to cheer self up. Also take off red skirt and pull on comfy joggers and old shirt of Derek’s with iron burn on back.
Heard the doorbell ring and go to answer it, yanking door back with wide smile and cheerful speech.
‘Small