What Holly's Husband Did Page 4

  ‘Look,’ I said, through slightly clenched teeth, ‘if you really must know–’

  ‘–I really must.’

  ‘Alex and I haven’t been getting on so well these last few months.’

  ‘Since last Christmas.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I think all our family, Alex’s included, worked that out when you lost the plot over a bit of custard.’

  ‘Right.’ I sighed. ‘It wasn’t just custard. There were some texts. Or, to give them their correct name, sexts. I discovered them quite by accident when Alex went out to buy milk. He left his phone behind. Somebody called Queenie sent a series of messages saying she was a genie in a bottle and wanted to rub various bits of Alex’s anatomy.’

  Simon looked visibly shocked. ‘Oh,’ was all he said.

  ‘Yes. Oh.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Holly.’

  I gave my brother a sharp look. I wasn’t used to genuine sympathy from him.

  ‘Obviously we had a row about it.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you who Queenie was?’

  ‘Yes. Some nutty ex-patient who was stalking him.’

  ‘Ah. So he didn’t tell you he was having an affair?’

  ‘He categorically denied there was another woman.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Why, indeed, would he even be interested in another female when he has a wife as gorgeous as you?’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  ‘Yes. Believe me, Holly, there is nothing sexy about that upper lip hair you’re sporting. You really should do something about your appearance. And tell me, are monobrows the latest must-have.’

  Ah, this was more like it. Simon at his bitchy best.

  ‘Thank you for reminding me I need to pluck out a few hairs,’ I growled.

  ‘Forget tweezers, dearest, you need a razor. Look, instead of trying to imitate Dita Von Teese, you’d be better off doing things for Alex that he appreciates.’

  ‘Like what?’ I frowned.

  ‘It’s your husband’s fortieth birthday next month.’

  ‘Yes, I know. We’ll go out to dinner to celebrate.’

  ‘What about throwing a surprise party for him? It was a really big deal for me when I hit the Big Four-Oh last year. I’d have loved somebody to do that for me.’ His eyes took on a faraway look as his mouth turned down with sadness. ‘Alas, it wasn’t possible.’

  For a moment I was quiet and considered. That was quite a nice idea. Actually, it was a bloody brilliant idea! I’d invite all our relatives, near and far. It would be a real knees-up, like nothing we’d had since our wedding reception. I’d get a band in and we’d dance, and laugh and have fun and be like kids again, giggling at Uncle Bob’s terrible disco moves, and then when the singer turned to the slow ballads, we’d smooch with our bodies pressed against each other. And then, at the end of the night, flushed with the success of it all and high on champagne bubbles, we’d retire to our bedroom, arms around waists. I’d briefly disappear into the bathroom, re-emerging in a lace corset with matching suspenders, then hit the button on the bedside radio – naturally pre-programmed to a station that played smoochy jazz numbers – and immediately proceed to drive Alex mad with lust as I seductively quivered, shimmied and shook.

  ‘It’s not often I agree with you, Simon, but on this occasion, I think you could be right.’

  ‘I’m gay, darling. Gay people are always right.’

  At that moment Sophie returned. She scowled at me, then beamed at her uncle. For once it didn’t bother me. My head was full of other things. Like arranging a party. Oh, and opening a Facebook account.

  6

  The moment Simon and Sophie had left the house, I hurried back to the study. Opening up the laptop, I clicked off burlesque dancing – I’d pretty much got the gist of it anyway – and typed Facebook into the search engine. Why hadn’t I done this before, I wondered, as the website link presented itself. I mentally shrugged. What was the point in having heaps of virtual friends? It wasn’t as nice as sitting in a mate’s kitchen putting the world to rights whilst hoovering up a box of cream cakes. But Simon was right. Again. I should try and keep up with the times. At the very least, make a show of it.

  Minutes later, I had set up a profile. Now what? I needed some friends. I had stacks of them, didn’t I? Well, definitely two.

  I typed Jeanie’s name into the search bar. Up popped her picture. Good heavens, what was she doing with her mouth? Some sort of peculiar pout? It made her look, well, weird. I sent her a friend request, and then searched for Caro. Oh, for goodness sake, she was doing the same thing as Jeanie with her mouth. Out of curiosity, I typed in my brother’s name. Simon’s face immediately filled the screen, complete with camp trout pout. I reviewed my own profile picture with fresh eyes. Clearly smiles – like flared trousers – came in and out of fashion and, right now, plumped-up lips were in. Moments later, I’d outlined my own with an eyebrow pencil, and filled them in with a dark lipstick. I practised pouting in the same way as Jeanie, Caro and Simon. Bingo. Taking a selfie, I uploaded it to Facebook. It looked nothing like me, but no matter, I now had hip lips.

  I then searched for Aunty Shirley. Ah, love her, she didn’t change. I sent her a friend request too, then scrolled through her list of friends. Forty of them! I was still struggling to find four. I knew who I was searching for – and there he was. Nerdy Jack. Except I couldn’t see what he looked like. He had his back to the camera, standing on the banks of a brown coloured river. Judging from the surrounding parched scrubland, it wasn’t England. I clicked the mouse on his name, hoping to see more pictures, but none were forthcoming. Presumably I had to be friends with Jack in order to see them. I then put my husband’s name into the search bar.

  Up popped Alex with, I gasped, three-hundred and twenty-two friends. What? How did he know so many people? Fortunately, Alex hadn’t applied any privacy settings to his account, so I was able to take my time and scroll through all the names. Many of the men appeared to be of the florid-faced variety, dentists, dentistry lecturers, members the Dental Association, also a charity for trigeminal neuralgia, and there were a considerable number of women there too, one of whom was a stunner. I peered at her name. Annabelle Huntington-Smyth. Hmm. I’d keep an eye on her. Maybe make discreet enquiries. Ah, there were Jeanie and Caro. Why were they Facebook friends with Alex? They didn’t chat to him extensively in person, so why would they do it virtually? Should I, perhaps, friend request their husbands? I wasn’t sure. If so, what would I chat to them about?

  Hello, Ray! I’m now on Facebook. How’s the garden? I liked your picture of what you had for dinner last night. By the way, is it true it takes you ages to come?

  Likewise David.

  Hey, Dave! I’ve finally caught up with social media. I know I only saw you a few hours ago when I had tea and cake with Caro in your kitchen, but I just thought I’d mention how tired you looked. Is this because you are exhausting yourself having sex three times a week?

  Hell, if Jeanie and Caro could be friends with my husband, then I would be friends with theirs! After all, I needed to urgently swell my number of contacts. At this rate I’d be looking like Billy No-Mates. I sent off friend requests to David and Ray, and then turned my attention to the main box where the cursor was bobbing about.

  What’s on your mind?

  Gosh, I hadn’t a clue. Not specifically, anyway. What to have for tea tonight? Whether my daughter would ever willingly kiss me goodnight again? Whether my husband would ever come home from work in a fluster after suffering a miracle testosterone surge and masterfully tell me to get in the bedroom, and NOW, because he’d spotted my trout pout on Facebook and it had driven him mad with desire? I was just debating what to write, when Facebook gave me a notification that Jeanie had accepted my friend request. Moments later a little box popped up indicating she was direct messaging me.

  What are you doing on here?

  Supposedly connecting with friends. Except I don’t seem to have any.r />
  Don’t worry. People have zillions of friends, but they don’t actually know them.

  So what’s the point of being friends with people you don’t know?

  So you look popular.

  I boggled at the screen. What was this? I felt like I was back in primary school all over again with rivalry about who had the most scooby plaits hanging off the zipper of their pencil case.

  I bumped into Simon on his way to Bluewater. He said you’re planning a party.

  I groaned. Trust my big-mouthed brother to start spreading the word.

  Yes. Alex is forty next month. It’s a surprise. Don’t say anything.

  Are you going to put it as your status?

  What a brilliant idea!

  Yes.

  In which case, make sure your settings are switched to private so you don’t get gate-crashers. Also, make sure Alex can’t read it.

  Oo-er. I’d not thought of that. Good point.

  Will do. Catch you later xx

  I clicked off the pop-up box, found the help button and sorted out the privacy settings, and then began to type.

  Holly Hart is planning a party…

  I sat back in my chair, feeling rather pleased with myself. Who to invite? Family, obviously. Both sides. The fact that they didn’t mix very well meant I’d need to dilute the two groups with lots of mutual friends. As Alex had so many Facebook contacts, I thought it might be prudent to vet who was a friend friend, and not just an acquaintance. I certainly didn’t want to end up with Rent-A-Crowd. When did friendship get so complicated?

  I was just about to click off Facebook when another notification appeared, this time advising that Caro was now my friend. The pop-up box appeared again.

  You’re finally on Facebook! AND having a party? You never said!

  I’ve only just decided. It’s for Alex. He’s going to be forty.

  Ah. What are you going to give him (other than a superior bonk of course)?

  I glanced about nervously, even though nobody was home. The last thing I wanted was Simon coming back early with Sophie, sneaking up behind me again, and reading about my fictitious sex life, especially after he’d caught me Googling erotic strip moves. He’d think I was having some sort of breakdown. Either that, or suspect his sister was a nymphomaniac.

  Let’s not talk about things like that online, Caro.

  What? Not talk about the party? Or sex?

  Sex!

  *Sigh* Fine. So when’s the party?

  Sometime next month. Need to put my thinking hat on.

  Do you want Rachel Weston’s phone number? She’s a party planner.

  Rachel Weston was a pushy school mum. She wasn’t my sort of person at all. She had one of those “fritefly porsh” accents that spoke of elocution and social climbing, rather than being born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

  Thanks, but I think I can manage.

  Okay. But if you change your mind and use Rachel, she’ll expect an invite.

  In that case I would definitely manage without her. I mean, how hard could it be to throw a party?

  7

  I spent a satisfying hour surfing the internet for suitable party venues, ultimately settling on the local golf club. Alex’s birthday was the seventh of October which, this year, fell on a Saturday. Picking up the phone, I spoke to the club’s social events manageress. She advised that The Mayflower Suite had unexpectedly become available due to a wedding cancellation.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, momentarily sorry for the bride whose nuptials had turned to ashes. However, her loss was most definitely my gain.

  ‘These things happen,’ said the disembodied voice. ‘At such short notice, you’ll have to pay the entire fee. No deposit.’

  ‘Right,’ I gulped. Alex, whilst not exactly stingy, nonetheless kept a firm hand on the Hart finances. I might have trouble explaining the withdrawal of a large sum of money from the joint account. Thankfully I had squirrelled away enough of my own wages to just about cover the party costs. No matter. This would be my birthday present to him. I rather suspected there wouldn’t be much left in the coffers afterwards, so presenting him with an actual gift might not be possible. I had a mental vision of handing Alex a small and beautifully wrapped oblong, his eyes lighting up.

  ‘Holly, you shouldn’t have! Is this the gold tie pin I was after?’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Oh. A bar of chocolate.’

  I shook away such thoughts. Too late now. I’d set the wheels in motion. Jeanie, Caro and Simon would never forgive me if I did a party U-turn.

  ‘The Mayflower Suite is the largest function room,’ said the voice. ‘It has a capacity of one-hundred-and-fifty people, its own bar, and permanent dance floor.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Now, what about music? Did you have a DJ in mind?’

  ‘I was hoping for a band.’

  ‘This is your lucky day, Mrs Hart! The bride had booked a band, and I know they’re still available.’

  ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘One other thing,’ the voice hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you be interested in karaoke too?

  ‘I think the band on its own will be enough.’

  ‘Have you heard of band-karaoke? I mention it because the bride booked these musicians specifically because of their diversity. They offer an hour’s slot for guests to sing their own songs with live backing. The bride was meant to have been singing a couple of ballads to her new husband, but now sadly it’s not to be. However, the karaoke element is very popular with family and friends. It provides a lot of fun, and would definitely make a fortieth birthday party go with an extra swing.’

  ‘You’ve talked me into it.’

  I had a sudden vision of taking the mic and singing something hauntingly beautiful to Alex. But then again, maybe not. My voice, especially after a few drinks, was more Jeremy Clarkson than Kelly Clarkson, but perhaps I could give my husband a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” before someone else took a proper turn.

  ‘And food? I don’t suppose you’d like the bride’s caterers, would you?’

  ‘A three-course meal would definitely be beyond my budget. But what about a buffet?’

  ‘Yes, that can be arranged.’

  We finished off with me agreeing to pop in after the school run the following morning and pay the full amount.

  Checking my watch, I headed off to the kitchen to start dinner. Alex wasn’t a fan of ready-made meals, saying they were of no nutritional value and full of unrefined sugar, which was terrible for the teeth. Everything I cooked had to be from scratch. As I was no Nigella, this was sometimes problematical. Like now. My husband would be coming through the door at any moment expecting organic pork chops and a mountain of pesticide-free fresh veg. There was no time for burning the former and peeling the latter. Hurriedly, I tossed pasta into a saucepan and mincemeat into a pan, furtively extracting from the depths of the larder a concealed jar of tomato and basil sauce for a speedy Bolognese. The sound of a key in the door let me know I’d not allowed enough time to nip outside to the wheelie bin and dispose of the evidence. Looking around for somewhere – anywhere – to hide the jar, I spotted my handbag on the kitchen chair. Moments later, the offending jar rested amongst a detritus of crumpled tissues, old sweet wrappers and tampons. I really must sort my bag out. It was shameful.

  ‘Mm, something smells good,’ said Alex, walking into the kitchen. He came over to greet me. I raised my mouth up to meet his kiss. He avoided my lips, instead pecking my cheek. I hid my disappointment. Why should tonight be any different to yesterday evening? And the one before that? I wondered if Jeanie’s and Caro’s husbands did the same to them, or whether Ray and David were quite up for ravishing their wives over the potato peelings.

  Alex moved over to a stack of mail I’d left on the kitchen worktop. He began thumbing through it. ‘The house is incredibly quiet,’ he said, grimacing at a brown envelope.

  ‘I expect Sophie wi
ll be home any moment.’

  ‘She’s out on a school night?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘but don’t worry, she was very conscientious and did her French homework beforehand.’

  ‘Where has she gone?’

  ‘Shopping. She’s at Bluewater with Simon.’

  At the mention of my brother’s name, Alex frowned. ‘Is that wise, Holly?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My tone was slightly defensive. I wasn’t always my brother’s biggest fan, but equally I didn’t like Alex insinuating Simon was a dreadful influence on our daughter.

  ‘She’ll come home with all sorts of unsuitable clothes, or ridiculous high heels entirely inappropriate for a child of thirteen.’

  ‘She’s nearly fourteen, Alex.’

  ‘Yes, fourteen going on twenty-four, and I blame your brother for that.’

  I turned the bubbling pasta down and briskly stirred the Bolognese, irritated.

  ‘I think her peers are more likely to be the cause of trying to look older. All the kids are like it. Have you seen some of the girls that come of the school gates? They look like jail bait.’

  ‘Yes, and as our daughter is one of them, no doubt all the other school parents will be blaming Sophie and your brother as the cause.’

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?’ I asked, tetchy now. I scraped some meat that had caught on the bottom of the pan.

  ‘No.’ Alex abandoned the post and turned to me. ‘Why are you suddenly so protective of him?’

  ‘Listen, just because Simon is sometimes eccentric –’ I ignored Alex making a pffft sound – ‘it doesn’t mean he’s a nasty person.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was nasty. But he is irresponsible. The last time he took Sophie shopping, she came home wearing a skirt with splits up to her navel.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘It was for the school disco and most unsuitable.’

  ‘Well at least it was for the school disco and not bloody Stringfellows,’ I said tartly.

  ‘No doubt your brother had ideas about borrowing the skirt himself.’