STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE Read online

  Stockings and Cellulite

  Debbie Viggiano

  Copyright © 2010 Debbie Viggiano

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  5 Weir Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1848 764 361

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11.5pt Bembo by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Two very special people inspired me to write this book.

  For Robbie and Eleanor, with much love.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  ‘Happy New Year Simon.’ I pecked my host’s proffered cheek as a party popper whizzed over our heads. ‘Absolutely fantastic party,’ I lied.

  ‘Thank you Sandra.’ He squinted at me.

  ‘Cassandra,’ I corrected. Pillock.

  Extricating myself from his drunken grasp, I scanned the whooping crowd for my husband. Perhaps Stevie was holed up in the kitchen with a bunch of beered-up work colleagues? Either that or flirting outrageously with anything in a skirt.

  I slipped out of the room and went upstairs to collect my coat. Party music pounded in my temples. A headache threatened. Elbowing open the door to the master bedroom I froze. My brain struggled to make sense of the scenario.

  I’d caught Stevie at it. On the job. Trousers down. Well, off actually. They were lying in a discarded heap on the floor along with his designer shirt – a Christmas gift from me – and a tangle of female garments. Shockwaves hit my body. I felt peculiarly detached, as if looking down on the situation before me.

  Stevie was on his back, spreadeagled across the bed. A porky woman bounced around on top of him. He was naked apart from his socks. A part of me pondered whether he’d put a condom on or whether it was just socks that he bothered about these days?

  The woman had large porridgy thighs, a stretchmarked tummy and banana shaped breasts. Her nipples were firmly in the grasp of both gravity and my husband’s hands. The earlier glow of celebrating both my thirty-ninth birthday and embracing the New Year disappeared faster than water down a plughole. It seemed like an eternity but was probably only a matter of seconds before my presence registered.

  Stevie’s head snapped sideways, our eyes collided, his hands froze mid fondle before shoving the woman hard. She let out a loud squawk and slid right off the bed pulling the duvet from under Stevie’s buttocks to frantically cover herself.

  ‘Cass!’ Stevie spluttered. ‘This honestly isn’t what it seems. Believe it or not there is a perfectly innocent explanation for what you think you’ve just seen.’

  Did he say think I’d just seen?

  Stevie began to dress, grabbing his shirt, hopping from foot to foot as he pulled on back to front underwear.

  I didn’t know what to say, or how to respond. The cat had been set amongst the pigeons and taken my tongue with it. Not one word of rebuke did I utter. Presumably it was shock.

  So this was why my husband hadn’t been by my side whilst Big Ben bonged the midnight hour. Clearly he’d been too busy doing his own particular brand of bonging. I extricated my coat from an untidy pile on the floor – at least they hadn’t bonged all over my fake fur – before calmly walking out of our host’s bedroom, down the stairs and out of the house. For a moment I stood on the pavement simply gulping in the freezing night air, then strode off toward the car. The engine turned over and I hit the accelerator, just as Stevie erupted out of the front door doing up his flies.

  Twenty minutes later I killed the engine on our driveway and slumped over the steering wheel. Infidelity. That horrible deed that made the heart pump unpleasantly, turned legs to rubber, knees to jelly and was the surest way to losing a stone in weight without even trying. If infidelity could be manufactured as a diet, the financial ramifications would be endless.

  Stevie didn’t come home. I lay in the empty double bed dully contemplating the dark shapes of bedroom furniture in the gloom and listened to familiar background noises – the hum of the emersion heater as it warmed the hot water tank, pipes creaking, the drip-drip of a tap in the bathroom. Noises of an otherwise slumbering house.

  As I lay there, utter devastation washed over me. I began to shake. Had he done this before? How many times? I couldn’t think straight. We’d more or less trundled through married life happily enough. Or so I’d thought. Oh I’d always been aware my husband was a flirt. Sometimes a downright outrageous one. But whenever I’d voiced aloud objections or suspicions, Stevie had thrown his hands in the air with a look of wide-eyed innocence protesting such playful teasing was only a bit of fun for heaven’s sake. How many times had I retreated, like a dog being scolded by its master, believing I was nothing more than a possessive little wife who really should muster a grip on her overactive imagination?

  So was my husband a serial adulterer? No doubt I’d been manipulated and lied to on more than one occasion. Dazzled by Stevie’s good looks and fobbed off by his charm, I’d clearly become blind to any extra-marital sneakiness.

  What the hell was I going to do? Leave my husband? Break up the family? Consign our twin children, Livvy and Toby, to a part-time father? It was either a case of put up and shut up, or do something about it.

  I stretched my legs, wincing as they encountered a chilly expanse of sheet from the unoccupied part of the bed. Turning over I huddled into the foetal position pulling the covers over my head. In a few more hours I’d collect the twins from Nell, my good friend and neighbour, and have a serious think about what – if anything – should be done.

  With these thoughts tumbling over and over in my mind, sleep mercifully descended and it was almost ten o’clock before I opened my eyes again to see cold winter sunlight filtering through the open curtains.

  ‘Happy New Year Cass!’ Nell fondly clasped me to her. ‘You look a sight for sore eyes. Good party eh?’

  ‘Oh it was an absolute blinder,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Attagirl!’ she laughed and nudged me heavily in the ribs. ‘Must be great having a husband who isn’t a party pooper, unlike my Ben. The minute anybody mentions a chance to partake in champagne celebrations, he goes straight into reverse, mad bugger.’

  ‘Who’s taking my name in
vain?’ The man himself wandered into the hallway, scratching his balls distractedly before readjusting his trousers. ‘Don’t believe one word of my wicked wife’s spin, it’s all lies. I’m simply a home bird and there’s nothing wrong with that. If you want to go out whooping it up Nell, tag along with Cass next time.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ Nell threatened, nonetheless snuggling into Ben as he wrapped an arm companionably around her shoulder.

  The pair of them seemed the epitome of wedded bliss, a couple who accepted each other’s faults but happily rubbed along together – sharing, dedicated, supportive and loyal. I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat as the twins appeared at the top of the stairs, Dylan hot on their heels. An only child, Dylan always relished the company of my two.

  ‘Aw, do we have to go now Mum?’ wheedled Toby.

  ‘Yep, come on. Let these good people have some peace and quiet.’

  I gave my neighbours another hug and thanked them profusely for the extended babysitting service. With promises of doing the same for them and cries of any time, no problem, I gently extricated myself. Livvy and Toby followed me back across the grass strip that separated the two houses.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Toby.

  ‘He’s, um, had to pop into work.’

  ‘Oh. Fancy having a game on the PlayStation Livvy? Come on, race you upstairs!’

  As the children thundered up to Toby’s room, I wondered whether the lack of their father’s presence mattered more to me than them.

  Later that afternoon the twins went out to play in the cul-de-sac on their bicycles, racing around with Dylan, shrieking and screaming with laughter in the cold winter air while I sat alone in the kitchen nursing a tepid cup of coffee.

  The emotional numbness had lifted enough to permit an endless stream of tears to silently course down my cheeks. I wasn’t actually crying. There was no heaving chest or breathless gulping or anguished howls. It was simply as if my eyes were leaking. Rather badly.

  The sound of a key cautiously turning had my heartbeat quickening, but I remained motionless at the kitchen table.

  ‘Cass?’ Stevie called before tentatively entering the kitchen.

  I kept my eyes down, staring at the skin floating on my cold coffee.

  ‘You do realise that you’re blowing things out of all proportion don’t you?’ he began.

  I continued to look at the disgusting coffee, aware that my mouth was turned down.

  ‘Don’t you think you should at least give me the chance to tell you what really happened?’

  I dragged my eyelids away from the brown liquid. ‘Go on then.’

  Stevie’s explanation of what I witnessed was almost laughable it was so pathetically lame. Apparently Mrs Banana Breasts had been feeling faint. Stevie had taken her to the bathroom to splash her face with water, but the bathroom had been engaged. Undeterred and ever the concerned party guest, Stevie had led Mrs Fat Arse into the master bedroom whereupon she’d fainted en-route to the en-suite. Conveniently there just happened to be a double bed for her to swoon upon.

  ‘Now she was a big girl Cass, you saw that with your own eyes. A bit of a whopper. Her arm was around my neck, weighing me down. And when she keeled over – well it couldn’t be helped could it? I went down with her. Next thing I know she’s made this amazing recovery, flipped me over, pinned me down, stripped me off and jumped on me.’

  ‘How terrible,’ I gasped in sympathy. ‘It’s tantamount to rape.’

  Stevie’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m telling you she tricked me! I was set up good and proper and couldn’t get her off. It might have looked like we were going at it, she was certainly trying, but good old Dick was having none of it. He was as limp as a lettuce. And then you walked in! But I’m being absolutely honest, the intent was totally one sided – hers not mine.’

  For one idiotic moment I’d nearly fallen for it. Almost believed him. Which just left one outstanding question.

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Ah. Now you might not believe what I’m about to tell you, but I swear it’s the God’s honest truth.’

  Wearily I rubbed my red-rimmed eyes. ‘Get out Stevie.’

  As the front door banged shut, I wondered whether he’d go to her.

  That evening, as I spooned baked beans over triangles of buttered toast, Toby regarded the empty space at the head of the table.

  ‘When’s Dad coming home?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ I quavered brightly. ‘I forgot to tell you both. Something cropped up at the office and Daddy has had to go away on urgent business.’

  ‘But he didn’t say good-bye,’ frowned Livvy. ‘He always says good-bye before he goes away. Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Well, here and there,’ I replied vaguely. ‘It’s something frightfully important and all a bit hush-hush.’

  Precisely what could be so top secret that a bog standard surveyor should take off without any farewell fortunately bypassed the twins.

  ‘When will he be back?’ asked Toby cramming an entire toasted triangle in his mouth.

  ‘Not sure,’ I mumbled miserably.

  The following morning, as I stared at a soggy mass of cereal willing my oesophagus to swallow a few spoonfuls, the doorbell exploded with frantic ringing. It was Nell.

  ‘Cass, you silly cow, why the hell didn’t you confide in me?’

  ‘Probably because I was trying to come to terms with the situation before anybody else got wind of it,’ I replied looking at her meaningfully.

  There was almost nothing Nell didn’t know about the residents of our cul-de-sac and I had certainly been deluding myself hoping the infidelity fiasco would go unnoticed.

  I chucked the congealed cornflakes in the bin and made some fresh coffee for us both while Nell spilled the gossip beans. It transpired that my love rival was a neighbour. She’d moved into the ivy-clad detached at the far end about a month ago. As I scalded my mouth on boiling coffee, I tried to silently count small blessings – well just the one blessing actually. My house was the first in the road and hers the last, so at least we wouldn’t bump into each other on a Monday morning when the bins were put out. Nell also confirmed that my adversary was a divorcee, had four children, and Dylan was in the same class as her eldest boy. That was only one down from the twins. Oh God. I’d have to move.

  ‘What’s her name?’ I hissed.

  ‘Cynthia.’

  ‘Cynthia?’ I shrieked, making Nell jump. ‘Who the hell is called Cynthia in this day and age?’

  ‘Fat old bags?’ asked Nell hesitantly.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I wailed massaging my temples.

  Nell considered. ‘Well, the way I see it there are three options.’ She held up her fingers and began to tick them off. ‘Move, stay put or-’

  ‘Murder Cellulite Cynthia,’ I growled.

  Nell left about an hour later, eyes bright after such a gossip feast. This was the best scandal since Mr Witherspoon a few doors down had been rescued by the Emergency Services. Although nobody had ever fully understood quite why he’d felt the need to shove his penis up the spout of the bath tap. Especially the hot one.

  Stevie sent a text proclaiming he loved me and had made a huge mistake. I let out a snarl and hurled the mobile to the floor. Fortunately we were the only house in the cul-de-sac never to have got around to laminate flooring. The mobile landed intact on the shagpile.

  Settling down with a notepad and pen I made some financial calculations – essential if one was seriously considering going it alone – and happily discovered that I was not necessarily financially dependent upon Stevie. Two years ago my darling octogenarian parents had left me reeling when they died within weeks of each other. As their only daughter they had bequeathed me the entirety of their worldly goods which, although modest, was not to be sniffed at. The money had been quietly sitting in a bond earning a tidy sum of annual interest. If I was thrifty it could easily support the twins and myself.

  On the pretext of wanting an ea
rly night, I was in bed soon after Livvy and Toby. In truth I wanted to privately release a torrent of weeping. Burying my face in the pillow to mute my howls of anguish, I wondered what Stevie and Cynthia were doing right now. Were they curled up together on the sofa watching telly? Cuddling? Kissing? Even worse, at it? The pain was so acute I thought it would dislodge my heart.

  I eventually sank into a tortured mixed up dream. Sitting astride Stevie I repeatedly yelled, ‘Liar, liar, liar’. As I pneumatically bounced around, Stevie morphed into Cynthia. ‘Bitch, tart, home wrecker,’ I shrieked lashing out with my fists. She grabbed me by the shoulders shaking me furiously. ‘Cow! Pig!’ I screeched, thrashing about and wishing she’d stop rattling me so violently because my brain was starting to hurt. If only I could just bunch my fist up one more time and biff her really hard on the nose it would be – ouch – it would be – argh – what was my rival doing to me?

  ‘Mum! Can you hear me? Wake up!’ Toby was gripping my shoulders and shaking me like a terrier with a rag doll. Behind him stood Livvy managing to look both disdainful and pained.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ she admonished. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. We go back to school today and there’s no bread to make our packed lunches.’

  Oh my goodness. What sort of parent was I? Aside from a heartbroken single one of course? I leapt out of bed, experienced a bit of a head rush, then belted down to the kitchen to ransack cupboards for crackers, crisps, biscuits and anything that bore the labels monosodium glutamate and millions of E numbers. Why couldn’t I be like some of the other school-gate mothers channelling my energies into raising a vegetarian family, buying organic ingredients and knocking up nutritious home baking? Perhaps if I’d been more like that I’d have had a faithful husband by my side. Meanwhile bags of crisps, sugary drinks and stale Ryvita would have to do.

  Shame washed over me as I realised that wallowing in self-pity had resulted in neglecting my precious offspring. Bugger Stevie for doing this to me. For the first time since the catastrophic events of that party, anger reared its head.