Chapter 23 Margot
Chapter 23
Margot
‘It’s here again,’ I say aloud, banging on the window. Its head turns, but it doesn’t stop what it’s doing now. I swear to God it’s smiling at me.
‘Nicu!’ I shout.
‘What?’ he replies as he leaves the en-suite bathroom. He’s only wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein fitted briefs and he’s drying his wet hair with a towel. Something inside me stirs.
‘I said it’s here again, taking another shit in our garden.’
‘What is?’
‘Liv’s cat.’
‘That’s what they do, isn’t it? Never on their own doorstep.’
‘Why here though? Do you think she’s trained it just to come over here, just to wind me up?’
‘Yes,’ he sighs, ‘because Liv has nothing better to do and cats are renowned for how easy they are to get to do as they’re told.’
‘Well, the next time I go to her house, maybe I’ll take a crap in its litter box. See how that thing likes it. And why isn’t it doing what it’s designed for and catching mice? God knows there’s enough of them around here after that warm winter. I heard something scurrying about again in the loft last night.’
‘I put poisoned bait up there and again in the garage, so I doubt you’ll be hearing that for much longer.’
Finally, after kicking soil with its back legs from the borders and on to the lawn, Cat Face saunters away and out of view.
‘I should complain about it to the parish council,’ I say.
‘You have too much time on your hands.’
‘I can think of a way to fill my time,’ I say and grab his waistband, pulling him towards me.
‘Margot, my parents are downstairs.’
‘So what?’ I wink.
I slip my hand down the back of his Calvins, cupping a buttock before sliding it around to the front. He must have only just shaved his balls because they feel like two eggs wrapped in cling film.
‘There was a time I wouldn’t have to ask twice,’ I remind him.
‘There was a time when you could read the room.’
I remove my hand and the waistband slaps against his skin.
‘Fine,’ I say sulkily, and quietly ponder the legalities of spiking your husband’s tea with Viagra.
Nicu’s right, I have too much time on my hands. Everyone’s lives feel as if they’re moving on while I’m so static, I’m not even treading water. The further I’m left behind, the more embittered I become. And I can’t snap myself out of it. Not even double-dosing my antidepressants is helping.
My mood isn’t helped by how I’m feeling about my appearance right now. The spa break was a quick fix that improved the exterior. But it’s under the bonnet where the real work is required. I need to shift a few pounds – and as exercise is supposed to release happy chemicals in your brain, I press the button to open the garage door and make my way inside to find my old Peloton exercise bike. Maybe being yelled at through headphones by a pissant instructor half my age can inspire me.
I turn on the light and pass the package that Anna was moaning to me about last night. I’ve had it for two days, since the delivery driver left it on the wrong doorstep. I’ve kept hold of it because I’m sick to death of hearing about how Instagram fashionistas who weren’t on her radar until five minutes ago are now her best friends. Come back when you’re on Anna Wintour’s speed dial and maybe then you’ll impress me. I might drop it off to her later, or make her wait another day or so.
By the time I’ve plugged in the bike, a notice pops up on the screen telling me I need to update the software, which will take an hour. Balls to that. You had your chance, Peloton.
Just as the door begins rolling down, I hear a noise. A meowing. I squint at the back of the garage, and perched on a box is Liv’s bloody cat. It must have followed me in here.
‘Time for a valuable life lesson, Cat Face,’ I tell it, and I allow the door to keep rolling until it’s completely closed. Let’s see if a few hours locked in there makes it rethink its attitude.
There’s another brown padded envelope waiting for me when I pass the front door, and a cold chill rushes through me. I tear it open, and this time my anonymous stalker has chosen to send me a Party Hard Posse magazine printed in the band’s early days. I hold my breath as I flick through it. A black marker pen has been used to scribble over every one of my photographs. It’s tame compared to other ‘gifts’. They must be running out of ideas. I stuff it back in the envelope and will put it in the cupboard with the rest later.
I need a drink to settle myself and spend a few minutes in the kitchen failing to locate the remains of the last bottle of red wine. Where the hell is it? Honestly, I’m starting to think I’m going mad at the stuff I’m losing lately. My Kindle, Waitrose loyalty card and Dior sunglasses have all vanished in this Bermuda Triangle of a house.
There’s laughter coming from the garden, so I make my way into the lounge and peer through the patio doors. Nicu is on the other side with his parents. Like Covid, they just keep returning and infecting my world. Frankie and Tommy are with them as they make the most of the surprisingly warm March morning. The whole group laughs again, and loudly, at a joke I’m not party to. Or perhaps I am the joke. It’s moments like this when I’m reminded I’m only ever going to be a spectator in this family.
To hell with them , I think. I’d rather be a shot of tequila than everyone’s cup of tea. So I leave them to it. Instead, I return to the kitchen, slip a second SIM card into my phone, and cheer myself up by replying to messages from people who do want to pay me the attention I deserve.