Lydia
Lydia
All of Lydia’s worst nightmares had come true.
She was totally alone. Abandoned. The girls had gone back to university, and Jeremy had moved in with another woman, one at least twenty years younger, and several sizes slimmer, than Lydia. Apart from her very meager salary, and the fighting fund she’d been able to squirrel away from Jeremy’s current accounts while she’d had access to his mobile phone, she had no ongoing means of support. There was no way she could afford their mortgage repayments, let alone anything else.
Yet Lydia hadn’t felt this free, this full of optimism, this young since she was first married. She was invincible. Well, maybe not invincible, but certainly relatively proficient. She’d even bagged up her entire collection of self-help books and taken them to the charity shop. Except for Michelle Obama, obviously. She didn’t need all the self-help anymore, since she’d realized she was entirely capable of helping herself.
Lydia walked toward the community center carrying a lemon drizzle cake and wearing a pair of Daphne’s tight leather trousers and platform shoes. The trousers were squeaking a little unnervingly, and her journey took her much longer than usual, on account of the shoes, and because she kept being stopped by neighbors telling her how much they’d enjoyed Jeremy’s wine. She’d never felt so popular! Revenge, it appeared, had never tasted so sweet. Or fruity, or oaky, or with delicate undertones of black currant.
Today, she was finally going to get to use the macramé plant-holder kits she’d had lined up for weeks. It would be such fun, and an entirely age-appropriate activity, thank goodness.
“Come in, Lydia!” said Art as she arrived. “We have a surprise lined up for you.”
Lydia sighed. She wished that, just once, she’d be allowed to set the agenda and be in control. Her so-called charges seemed to be constantly taking charge. If it hadn’t been for the homemade cakes she always brought with her, she’d have been utterly redundant.
“Popcorn, madam?” asked Anna, gesturing at a collection of buckets of popcorn in the basket of her mobility scooter. Great. It appeared they didn’t even need her cake.
Wordlessly, Lydia put down the cake, took some popcorn, and followed Art into the darkened room. All the blinds were down, and the chairs were arranged in rows, pointing toward a projector screen.
Lydia had a terrible sense of déjà vu. Last time she’d watched a slideshow in this hall, it had not ended well.
“Sit! Sit!” said William. “Now the guest of honor is here, we’re all ready to go!”
Lydia sat down, next to Ruby, who patted her knee. Ruby’s own knee was covered, as always, in knitting.
Some music started playing. “The female of the species is more deadly than the male,” sang the artist of a song she remembered from the 1990s, when she and Jeremy had been newlyweds. She remembered Jeremy scoffing at the lyrics.
“I chose the music!” said Daphne, from right behind her. Daphne had a habit of just appearing from nowhere, exactly where the action was taking place, as if the usual rules of entrances and exits didn’t apply to her.
“That figures. Ow!” said Art, as Daphne poked him in the back with her walking stick.
A title came up on the screen: The Mandel Community Center Social Club Presents… The words faded out, to be replaced with Jeremy Has a Bad Day . Followed by: or Lydia’s Revenge .
Everyone cheered and clapped. There were even a few whoops.
Lydia took a large handful of popcorn and leaned back in her chair. This might be more fun than the macramé plant-holder kits, after all.
William had, it appeared, edited together all the photos they’d taken on the night of Daphne’s grand plan, so they could each enjoy the parts of the action they’d missed. The first pictures on the screen were of Jeremy trying to remove the giant wool penis from his scooter.
“Look! It’s a huge prick! Holding another huge prick!” said Art. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lydia. You must have loved him once.”
She had loved him once, more even than she’d loved herself. And perhaps that was the problem.
“I think that’s some of Yarnsy’s best work yet,” said Anna. They all seemed to have an unspoken agreement to play along with Ruby’s incognito act.
“You think so?” said Ruby. “Yes, I like the attention to detail. Did you notice the pronounced vein running down the shaft? And the little nest of pubic hairs at the base?”
“I did, Ruby, I did,” said Anna. “She’s a genius.”
“Or he. Or they. Nobody knows,” said Ruby.
“Right,” said Anna, rolling her eyes. “Nobody knows.” Anna leaned in toward Daphne and whispered, “How long do we have to carry on with this charade?”
“What charade?” said Daphne.
The next picture, caught by a telephoto lens, was Art’s hand removing a phone from Jeremy’s pocket, then the camera pulled back to reveal Anna blocking the pavement with her mobility scooter.
“I think I was a highwayman in a former life,” said Anna. “Stand and deliver!”
“God help us,” said William.
The next series of photos were taken in a fancy restaurant. Jeremy sitting alone with two giant steaks, looking increasingly cross. Then there was a selfie of Art and Daphne, champagne glasses raised, smiling broadly. Lydia suspected it was the first selfie they’d ever taken, since it was crooked, a little blurry, with the edge of a thumb added and half of Art’s head missing.
“What’s that photo doing in there?” said Daphne. “It’s not part of the plan.”
“I had to include it,” said William. “Because you two look like you actually like each other.”
“Humph,” said Daphne and Art simultaneously.
Next came shots of Jeremy being accosted by the grateful neighbor with the wine, followed by video footage of him shouting up at Lydia’s window, his angry face resembling a stewed plum.
Lydia almost felt sorry for him. But not quite.
The final photos were a complete surprise. Jeremy with the door of his Mercedes open, vomiting into a gutter.
“What’s going on there?” asked Lydia.
“Well, I know this bit wasn’t in Daphne’s outline, but Art and I did a teeny bit of improvisation,” said William. “You know we asked you what Jeremy loved most in the world, after his daughters? And you said his wine cellar and his Mercedes?”
Lydia nodded.
“Well, you and Ruby handled the wine cellar, and Art and I dealt with the Mercedes,” said William.
“What did you do to it?” asked Lydia.
“We put a rotting kipper under the bonnet,” said Art, giggling. “When the engine warms up, the smell goes through the heating system.”
“You’re such children,” said Daphne. “And that’s hardly original— such a cliché.”
“I prefer to think of it as an old classic , rather than a cliché. A bit like us, Daffy,” said Art, and he grinned at Daphne. Daffy?!? Daphne was not going to like that. It was hardly respectful. Lydia waited for the inevitable explosion, but Daphne smiled back at Art, looking almost…pleased.
“Play it again!” said Ruby, but before William could restart the show, the door opened, letting a shaft of light in from the hall.
“Err, hello?” said a man. “Is this the Senior Citizens’ Social Club?”
“Yes, it is,” said Lydia, jumping to her feet and rushing over to turn on the lights. “I’m Lydia. I’m in charge.” In theory , she nearly added.
“Where are all the others?” said the man, looking around as if there might be twenty more OAPs hiding behind the furniture. Lydia hadn’t actually told anyone at the council that she only had six club members, and one of them was technically dead.
“Oh, they’re doing the alternative outing today,” lied Art, before Lydia had a chance to tell the truth.
“What outing?” said the man.
“Uh, a tour of the local cemeteries,” said Daphne, picking up the baton.
“Oh, right. I can see how that might be useful,” said the man. “I could arrange a trip to our local hospice, too, if you like. Forward planning is essential! Anyhow, I wanted to do you the courtesy of coming down in person to let you know that the council had a vote last night on the future of the community center.” He paused, as if waiting to be thanked for his consideration. They stared at him, silently.
“We’ve had a great offer from a developer,” he continued. “And the money they’re offering will benefit the whole community. So, unless anyone can find the hundred thousand pounds we’d need for repairs and maintenance by two weeks today, we’re going to cut our losses, board the place up, and hand over the keys. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look sorry.
“Wait. I thought it was eighty thousand we needed,” said Daphne, as if it made any difference which unfeasibly large amount was required.
“That’s just for the initial repairs. Then another twenty for ongoing maintenance and contingency,” said the man.
“And is anyone close to raising that money?” said Art.
“Not as far as I’m aware,” said the man.
“We have three hundred and sixty-five pounds and forty-nine pence in the appeal fund so far,” said Lydia.
The man chuckled and left, sucking all the air out of the room before closing the door behind him.
“We’re doomed,” said Lydia, sitting down heavily. She’d already lost her husband, her daughters (most of the time), and her primary means of support. She couldn’t lose her job, too, or the club members, who she counted as friends. Which may be why she lacked any form of authority.
“Two weeks today,” said Daphne. “That’s the day of the talent show. We still have time.”
“What talent show?” asked Lydia.
“Maggie and Art have won a place in a TV talent show. The prize money is a hundred grand,” said Daphne.
“Blimey! Do they have any chance of winning?” said Lydia, trying not to sound skeptical.
“Totally!” said Daphne, who either had huge faith in their dog or was a very good liar. Lydia suspected the latter.
“We only have fourteen days to get a really slick act together,” said Art. “It’s a tall order.”
“You know what we should do?” said William. “Art and Maggie might get a sympathy vote, but they’re not going to get the ‘aah’ factor.”
“Thanks, mate,” said Art. “But I take your point.”
“We need to add some cute into the mix. Remember the nativity? It was genius, until it all went tits up. We should rope in some of the kids,” said William.
“Brilliant idea,” said Art. “I’ll talk to Janine.”
“In the meantime, does anyone fancy doing some macramé?” said Lydia.