Chapter Eleven
Shudder. If ever there were words to strike fear into the hearts of mortal women, surely it was these.
Golf. Club. Social. And this evening, I was that mortal woman.
But despite my reservations I knew I had to go, both for the sake of my marriage, and the sake of my credibility within that marriage – to prove to my husband (and myself) that I was a functioning adult person, capable of socialising in my own right.
Joe and I had patched things up after our little disagreement (insomuch as ‘not really discussing it’ can be considered patching things up) but some of his words had hit home and I did take the opportunity to capitalise on the double whammy of finding out I’d lost my job on the same day that I discovered I was also a terrible overbearing mother, to tart up my CV and apply for the library assistant position.
More to have something to thrust under my husband’s nose to demonstrate how proactive I was being than anything else. Small wins.
I also vowed not to call Layla any more than was strictly necessary, waiting patiently until the next day to hear about her flatmates’ thoughts on the house they’d viewed (too far from town and not enough en-suite bathrooms – how very dreadful for them) and whether she was feeling okay about it.
And I worked extremely hard to avoid suggesting an immediate return home, or another lengthier visit from her newly unemployed mother, who would have been happy to sleep on the floor or even in the skanky kitchen if it meant I could be near her in her hour of distress.
It was in this new state of equanimity and acceptance that I donned my glad rags (wide-leg, bottle-green jumpsuit, tailored jacket, low heeled boots) and entered the hallowed portal of ‘Hole in One’, the oh so cleverly named bar gracing the clubhouse at Amberley Golf Course.
The fact that my mother called me just as our taxi pulled up to the very well-maintained portico entrance did not add to my mood, which was currently one of sombre penance.
‘Harriet. I’ve booked us into the day spa at Mornington Grange,’ she said with minimal preamble. ‘I felt you looked a little peaky the last time I saw you.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
‘And Joe mentioned that you’d lost your job.’
I looked sideways at my husband. ‘Did he now?’
‘And I know you’ve sunk into the doldrums since Layla left, and what with that and being unemployed I thought a hot stone massage and rejuvenating facial might be just the ticket.’
‘Right.’
‘To be honest, darling, you just need to pull yourself together as regards Layla. Life moves on.’
‘Right. Yes.’
‘And anyway, Robert gets a twenty percent discount at Mornington because he used to run one of his aesthetics clinics there. It goes some way to making up for the fact that he’s a terrible bore.’
‘Right.’ Joe was paying the taxi driver and gesturing for me to wrap up the conversation. ‘So, sorry, Mum – when is this?’
‘The third of November,’ she said. ‘It’s a Tuesday. I thought it probably didn’t matter which day of the week it was now that you’re…’
‘Unemployed – yes, so you said,’ I finished for her.
‘Well. Quite. And I don’t have much space in the calendar over the weekends, so it suited me too.’
‘I’ll bet it did,’ I said, somewhat ungraciously.
‘Look, I haven’t got my diary on me, Mum.
’ (I obviously did – it was on my phone – but my mother still uses an old-school A5 pocket diary with illustrations from the Royal Horticultural Society and assumes that everyone else does the same.) ‘Can I give you a call tomorrow when I’ve checked if I’m free on that date? ’
‘Well, I’ve already booked it Harriet.’ Her tone was one of disappointment that I’d not somehow intuited that I needed to keep that day in November free. ‘And it would be very inconvenient to have to change it now. I’m not sure if Robert’s discount would…’
‘Mum, I’ve really got to go,’ I said as a car behind us gave a parp on its horn and Joe gestured more frantically at me to get out of the car. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. How about you come round for lunch?’
‘Sorry darling, Fernando’s taking me for a day at the races tomorrow. And the early part of next week is looking absolutely chock-a-block.’
‘Well, I’ll call you then.’
‘Alright,’ she trilled. ‘Have a lovely evening. And don’t forget, November third, Mornington Grange.
You’ll need flip flops or towelling slippers, but the robe and towels are included.
I think. I’ll check with Robert. Get ready to relax!
’ (This was said in quite a threatening and instructional tone, which somewhat undermined the message.)
‘Bye!’ I said, disconnecting the call as I bundled myself out of the now moving taxi.
Joe extended a hand and pulled me from the path of oncoming vehicles. ‘Meredith?’ he said.
‘The very same.’ I tried to discreetly pull out the wedgie from my jumpsuit as we walked up the steps to the entrance. ‘She has a real knack for making something that should be a treat, hugely stressful. Why did you tell her about the pharmaceutical contract ending?’
‘Sorry love.’ He looked genuinely contrite. ‘I thought she knew. I assumed you’d already told her.’
I huffed. ‘No. I was going to tell her, of course. But I was trying to work out how to phrase it in such a way that it didn’t add to her list of the many reasons I’m a failure.’
‘You’re not a failure,’ he said. ‘And your mother doesn’t think you are. I’m sure she’s very proud of you.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Well, I’m sure she doesn’t think any less of you for being made redundant. It could happen to anyone.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened if I’d chosen a career in dentistry, would it?’
‘Like Martha Kimpton’s daughter,’ we both said in unison, referring to the oft-quoted example my mother used.
‘Anyway. You can tell her about the interview. She’d be impressed by that.’ He held open the heavy part-glazed front door of Hole in One.
‘An interview for a part-time library assistant in one of the least desirable areas of town,’ I said as I walked through to the bar area. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I think it’s impressive,’ he said, giving my arm a squeeze. ‘And we should have a drink to celebrate.’
I opted for a dirty martini, which may have been a mistake.
It felt like so long since I’d even been in a bar I’d forgotten what normal people drink, and I didn’t just want a glass of wine like I might have at home.
Still, Joe looked a little surprised by my choice, as if his wife had turned into a Bond villain.
‘Joe!’
‘Steve!’
There was a general thumping of backs and masculine greetery with the silver fox standing next to us at the bar.
Joe introduced me to Steve, who, if memory served, was the big business fish Joe was trying to net, and his wife, Carol, who looked to be in her early fifties, although it was difficult to tell given that parts of her were significantly younger.
Her nose had definitely been on the receiving end of an over-enthusiastic plastic surgeon and was now wafer thin in a Michael Jackson style, somewhat at odds with the rest of her face, which had obviously been pumped full of fillers.
Still, I wasn’t one to judge, I thought to myself as I silently judged her, and I smiled as she nudged past her husband into the space beside me.
‘Dirty martini,’ she said, eyebrows raised (although this seemed to be a permanent state).
‘I’ve just gone for the usual Prosecco.’ She indicated her half full glass.
‘I just love the bubbles!’ Her voice went all high-pitched and giggly.
‘Steve says to me, Carol, what time is it? And I say, Prosecco o’clock, don’t I Steve?
’ She nudged her husband in the ribs and he smiled benignly.
‘Whatever time of day it is,’ she nudged me now, ‘it’s always Prosecco o’clock in my house! ’
I stared at her for a second, unsure whether she was taking the piss in an elaborate parody of herself – and then I realised she was serious.
‘Oh, yes,’ I laughed. ‘Same here!’
‘Girls just wanna have fun – amirite?’ She chinked her glass against my coupe while I prayed my face hadn’t given away the massive internal cringe I was feeling.
‘I’ll introduce you to the other wives,’ she said, topping up her glass from the open bottle on the counter and holding it aloft as she wobbled on her heels in the direction of a group of highlighted and buffed women who were conferring in the corner.
‘Holla!’ she called, waving the bottle in the air to get their attention. ‘Ladeeez! Let’s get this party started!’ She winked at the assembled women who understandably looked a little alarmed. ‘Who needs a refill?’
‘Not for me thank you, Carol.’ A very toned woman in a figure-hugging black dress placed a hand over her glass and smiled sweetly at our generous but slightly kamikaze chief hen.
‘You know what a terrible lightweight I am!’ She pulled an exaggerated look of horror.
‘I’d be under the table in minutes if I tried to keep up with you!
Besides, John and I are up at the crack of dawn to take Reuben to his open day.
’ She gave her immaculate blonde hair a shake and mouthed ‘Oxford,’ with a conspiratorial little whisper.
‘Gosh Tiggy, look at you with a son at Oxbridge,’ said the woman next to me who had no such qualms about refusing Carol’s Prosecco. She had a squarer frame than her friend and had chosen a voluminous floral dress that wasn’t enormously flattering.
‘Well – not yet,’ said Tiggy. ‘I don’t want to jump the gun. But his teachers absolutely insisted he apply. They say that his sort of natural aptitude needs the correct academic environment to flourish.’