Lucy's Last Straw: A feel-good laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Read online

  Lucy's Last Straw

  A feel-good, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

  Debbie Viggiano

  Books by Debbie Viggiano

  Lucy’s Last Straw

  The Man You Meet in Heaven

  What Holly’s Husband Did

  * * *

  Stockings and Cellulite

  Lipstick and Lies

  Flings and Arrows

  The Perfect Marriage

  Secrets

  The Corner Shop of Whispers

  The Woman Who Knew Everything

  Mixed Emotions ~ short stories

  The Ex Factor (family drama)

  Lily’s Pink Cloud ~ a child’s fairytale

  100 ~ the Author’s experience of Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  What Holly’s Husband Did

  Extract - What Holly’s Husband Did

  Hear more from Debbie

  Books by Debbie Viggiano

  A Letter from Debbie

  The Man You Meet In Heaven

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you to my husband, Mr V, for providing the inspiration to this novel.

  * * *

  Who knew toothpaste had such a story to tell?!

  One

  ‘You know it makes sense, Lucy.’

  I stared at my husband in horror. For the last few minutes, Leo had been talking non-stop about a tiny tumbledown cottage for sale in the next village. And he wanted us to move into it.

  ‘You’re joking,’ I scoffed.

  ‘Am I laughing?’ Leo countered. ‘The kids have left home and we have three empty bedrooms collecting dust. We’re rattling around this place like dried-up peas in a drum.’

  ‘I like rattling,’ I said defiantly. ‘And less of the dried-up reference.’

  Leo had hit a nerve. At forty-nine, I was on the verge of a half-century crisis. As much as I tried embracing yet another grey hair and telling myself that silver was still sexy, my heart wasn’t in it. Inside, I was still eighteen. Girly and giggly. But unlike those days, a missed period didn’t send me running to the pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test kit. Oh no. These days a blip in the menstrual cycle was my body’s way of reminding me that it was going through some very different hormonal changes. The menopause was hurtling towards me faster than the local high-speed train at Ebbsfleet International.

  Leo folded his arms across his chest. A defensive gesture. He was still a good-looking guy. A fifty-two-year-old version of Robert Redford. Everyone flirted with Leo. Patsy, my next-door neighbour, was forever fluttering her eyelashes at my husband.

  ‘He’s such a hunk, Lucy,’ she was always saying. ‘You’re so lucky to sleep every night with Leo by your side. If we were sharing a bed, I’d be worn out.’

  ‘Oh?’ I’d raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  ‘Because no sleeping would ever get done, darling!’ she’d grinned.

  Patsy was a dead ringer for Dorien from Birds of a Feather. A man-eater with a penchant for red lipstick, leopard-print handbags and transparent blouses showcasing various black lace bras, she devours men like Leo for breakfast. And lunch and dinner.

  ‘Are you even listening to me, Lucy?’ Leo asked, annoyance flashing across his still-handsome features.

  ‘I don’t want to move,’ I said, abruptly standing up from the kitchen table where we’d been having Sunday lunch together. Heaven knows why I’d cooked a roast in weather like this. A salad would have been far more appropriate for July’s heatwave.

  I began clearing away the plates from the table and moved over to the kitchen sink, distancing myself from both my husband and the conversation. I didn’t want to leave the house where our three children had been conceived and subsequently raised. It had memories etched into every room. Even the built-in wardrobes in the kids’ bedrooms still sported the faded marks of a black indelible pen:

  Jessica – age nine, 139 cm

  Amy – age seven, 119 cm

  Daniel – age five, 101 cm

  Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Leo visibly huff and recross his arms. He was definitely on the defensive. If I hadn’t been busy clearing up, I’d have resorted to some vigorous arm-crossing myself. Instead I pursed my lips and ignored my husband. How could he be prepared to walk away from our family home so easily? If we moved into the ridiculously tiny dwelling he was talking about, then much of our furniture would have to be discarded too. There would be no room for the huge, solid pine kitchen table, the wood of which still bore white rings from happy hours of painting we’d done with the kids – the jam jars full of dirty-coloured liquid and stained brushes. Every time I looked at those marks, I didn’t see water spoilage. Instead I saw my three kids… younger… smaller… at a time when Leo and I – and not their latest love interests – were their universe. Those rings gave me a warm glow.

  ‘But why don’t you want to move, darling?’ Leo cajoled.

  I glanced at him. He’d dropped the folded-arms-across-chest pose and softened his tone. I could read him like a book. Don’t bully her. Sweet-talk her instead. She’ll come around. After twenty-five years of marriage, Leo was also very good at reading me, too. He would have noted my mouth set in an unattractively obstinate line, along with the rigid set of my jaw and stiff back. He’d go down the flattery route next.

  ‘Do you know how adorable you are when you’re annoyed?’

  See! Told you.

  ‘You’re still a very beautiful woman, Luce. When you’re all made up, you look just like that actress, Sandra Bullock.’

  ‘As opposed to when I’m not made up and just look like a bullock?’

  ‘Can’t I pay my wife a compliment?’ he said, feigning hurt.

  ‘Stop trying to charm me, Leo,’ I protested.

  ‘I wasn’t!’

  ‘You know perfectly well that you’re only sucking up to me because you ha
ve an ulterior motive,’ I replied, blasting hot water into the sink and swishing washing-up liquid under the tap’s flow. My temper was starting to bubble, just like the soap suds. Leo had been mentioning this wreck of a cottage on and off for the last year. It had been a softly-softly approach at first, but now it was like a relentlessly dripping tap. Just like the one in front of me. I shut off the faucet with a flourish.

  ‘This needs a new washer,’ I said, stabbing a finger at the spout. ‘Shall I ring a plumber?’

  ‘Not really worth bothering about it if we move.’

  ‘I. Just. Told. You,’ I enunciated. ‘I’m not moving.’

  ‘Lucy,’ said Leo, his tone becoming one of wheedling. ‘Please don’t be so stubborn. This place is too big for us. We’re throwing money away on huge heating bills—’

  ‘So you want us to throw money away on a clapped-out cottage instead?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Leo hastily. ‘It would be an investment. Something with character and on which we can put our own unique stamp. You could have one of those charming wood burners in the inglenook fireplace, and a nice range in the kitchen. You know how you love that look.’

  ‘I could have those things here if I wanted,’ I pointed out.

  ‘But it doesn’t really go in a house like this one, does it?’ Leo countered. ‘An oblong seventies detached isn’t great for imitating that rustic olde-worlde look.’

  ‘Patsy has beams in her house,’ I argued.

  ‘Mm. Plastic ones. Not quite the same thing, is it?’

  ‘They look real enough to me. And she loves them. And anyway, I like it here. And I like our neighbours.’

  ‘No you don’t!’ said Leo, snorting. ‘You moan endlessly about Colin on the corner starting his motorbike up at six o’clock every morning… and Pete, whose car needs a new exhaust, and the racket it makes when it backfires like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang as he goes off to work. And let’s not forget Patsy, who spends her summer evenings out in the garden having noisy romps on her patio with her latest lover. Getting away from her alone would be positively blissful.’

  I suspected that Patsy’s love life was an issue for Leo. Our neighbour’s much younger lovers were a constant reminder that he wasn’t as virile as they were. For him, the days of heady impulsive sex seemed to be over. Mind you, it wasn’t necessarily because he didn’t feel like it. Sometimes he did. It was the wife who wouldn’t oblige. My sex drive had done a bunk. I wasn’t sure why. Presumably it was due to falling oestrogen levels.

  Patsy was a whole year older than me, so quite why she was in a perpetual state of sexual arousal was a complete mystery. We’d got to know each other when she’d moved into our road ten years ago. Fresh out of the divorce courts, she’d said hello over the garden fence and we’d immediately hit it off. She wasn’t shy either, and confided all sorts. I knew, for example, that her current beau was twelve years younger than her, looked like a Greek God, but had a poor track record on commitment – which didn’t bother Patsy in the slightest.

  ‘Who wants commitment, darling?’ she’d often say, blowing a cloud of vape directly over my head as we shared coffee together. ‘It’s so overrated. I’ve been married three times, and what did it do for me? Three kids that constantly bounce back and—’

  ‘I thought you said you had two kids?’ I’d interrupted.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. But the third kid was my last husband. A total man-child. In the beginning I thought it was endearing, but at the end it was simply annoying. It’s much easier – and more fun – to stick to lovers,’ she’d smirked. ‘That way you get all the joy without dirty socks and dropped clothes. Let’s face it, men are messy buggers.’

  ‘Lucy, would you please stop switching off?’ Leo implored. ‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.’

  ‘Look, Leo,’ I said, stacking dripping plates in the dish rack, ‘how many times have I got to keep saying that I don’t want to move? What is this fascination with a half-derelict cottage, which, although not a million miles from here, is still in a very isolated spot? If it’s such a great investment opportunity, why hasn’t it been snapped up by a local builder, or a pair of young professionals looking for a weekend retreat?’

  ‘Okay,’ Leo nodded, ‘I’ll give you some very valid reasons as to why we should give this serious consideration.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. As he came towards me, he began ticking off the details on his fingers. ‘Firstly, it’s quiet. I long to have peaceful Sunday morning lie-ins without the likes of Colin, Pete and Patsy disturbing me.’

  ‘Okay, Colin and Pete are a bit of a nuisance, but I like Patsy.’

  ‘Secondly,’ said Leo, sweeping on, ‘if we sold this house we would be able to buy the cottage outright, afford to do it up, and still have some money in the bank and—’

  ‘Hang on,’ I interrupted, ‘who, exactly, is going to be doing the “doing up” bit?’

  Leo had a lot of good traits, which had been partly why I’d married him. Patience was top of the list, followed by great father potential, and he’d never got irritated by my mother – which was a huge brownie point because my mother could be more irritating than itching powder. But one thing Leo had never possessed was practicality. A trip to Ikea, in the early years of marriage, had seen him looking very uneasy at the checkout. I’d discovered why when he’d later tried putting the flat-pack furniture together. Two words. Impractical person.

  ‘Well, you’re the hands-on one out of the two of us,’ Leo retorted. ‘You’re brilliant with a paintbrush.’

  ‘Leo, that cottage is going to need a lot more than a lick of paint. It probably needs replastering, replumbing, re-everything. The last time I avoided the traffic and doubled back through the country lanes, I couldn’t even see the cottage because of its overgrown garden and hedgerow. However, I did spot the chimney pot and there was a sapling growing out of it.’

  Leo flapped a hand. ‘All fixable. We could get someone in to sort it out, and you could be Project Manager.’

  ‘Me?’ I dried my hands on a tea towel and planted them on my hips. ‘Why not you?’

  ‘Because you’re the one at home all day,’ he said simply.

  ‘I work too, you know,’ I cried. ‘Just because I don’t drive to London like you, it doesn’t mean I have time to share gossip and cups of tea with a builder as he takes a break from knocking down a wall.’

  My ‘career’ wasn’t exactly high-flying. I worked from home making curtains and also provided a service for clothes alterations. If I wasn’t hemming drapes, I was taking in waistbands or letting them out again. On the very odd occasion, I’d even made simple wedding dresses. Dressmaking was something I’d always enjoyed as a hobby. When the children had come along, I’d turned my skills into a means of bringing in some extra cash. I’d continued with it once they’d started school, running up things like made-to-measure blinds between the hours of nine and three, and had consequently been lucky enough to never require expensive childcare.

  ‘And exactly how does my sewing fit in with plaster mess? I can see a client’s face right now as I invite them to step on to a dust sheet for a fitting, and to please mind the nails sticking out of the door frame.’

  ‘It would all be a temporary transition, Luce,’ Leo soothed, ‘and anyway, you haven’t listened to the third reason why we should move.’ My husband’s face suddenly clouded.

  ‘Go on then,’ I snapped, ‘spit it out. What is this wonderful final reason why we should pack up this house and downsize?’

  ‘Because,’ said Leo, his voice faltering slightly, ‘there’s something I haven’t told you. Something monumental. I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to worry you, especially if nothing came of it.’ His tone had taken on an ominous note and I had a sudden sense of foreboding. For a moment we just stood there, staring at each other, me with my hands still on my hips, and Leo with his Adam’s apple yo-yoing nervously up and down his windpipe. ‘But now… now I need to face up to th
e reality of the situation.’

  ‘What situation?’ I demanded.

  ‘Er, well, there’s been some changes, Lucy. At work. Mainly, a new CEO with a fresh broom approach.’

  ‘Meaning?’ I said, my voice quavering slightly.

  ‘Meaning out with the old and in with the new. And I’m one of the old. I think I’m going to be made redundant.’

  Two

  ‘Redundant?’ I echoed.

  My insides felt as though they were physically recoiling in horror. Was this what you had to half-expect as you grew older? The possibility of getting laid off because you were no longer seen as fresh-faced and dynamic? Did Leo’s new CEO regard my husband as a has-been, rather than a loyal and long-serving employee? Oh my God, redundant! It was a word that had been hovering on the edge of my thoughts ever since our youngest left home, because I’d felt redundant as a parent. And now Leo was going to be redundant as a worker.

  ‘But what’s been going on?!’ I cried. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything to me about this before? Not one word!’