Celia Anderson - 59 Memory Lane

Much later, as they lay in his hotel bed listening to the subdued roar of the night-time city, Emily was horrified at herself for falling for such a cheesy chat-up line, but her whole body was tingling and her lips were swollen from so much kissing. It wasn’t until the end of a week of passion that she discovered Max had a wife and three children in Massachusetts, and that he had absolutely no intention of leaving them.

That was the time to call it quits, but the dangerous thing about Max is that he knows how to have fun, and even boring activities become sparkling in his company. He turns everyday events into adventures. Now, in the tiny open-plan studio that goes with her job, Emily pushes thoughts of this addictive lover out of her head and sits down at her desk to email back to the man who’s poked her conscience with a sharp stick.

Dear Andy,

It’s very good of you to be so concerned about my grandmother.

Does that sound sarcastic? Oh well, if he wants to take it that way, he’s welcome to.

I think it’s best if I come over and see for myself how she is. Work has been crazy since the funeral or I’d have been before.

Emily bites her lip. She shouldn’t have to apologise to some hick gardener who’s sticking his nose into her business, should she? But then she remembers how happy Gran had been to hear from her, and carries on. The man means well. Probably.

I’ll be in Pengelly next Sunday (11 June) sometime, depending on traffic. I expect we’ll bump into each other, like we always have.

She deletes the last sentence. It’s only manners to ask to see him properly, not just hope to find him in the potting shed.

I’ll give you a call when I get there. Maybe we can meet up? Thanks again for your care.

Emily

There. That’s done. Emily presses Send before she can waste any more time altering the message. She glances at her phone. Still no reply from Max, but that’s no surprise. He’ll be in the garden room at the back of that dream of a house on the coast. When he first showed her photographs of his home, soon after she let slip she knew he was married, Emily thought he was joking. ‘THIS is yours? It’s enormous,’ she gasped, looking at the pool with its Swiss chalet-style changing room and the lawns sloping down towards the bay. ‘What on earth did you do before you were an author?’

Max looked a bit shamefaced at this. ‘Oh, I was a struggling writer for years before Ned took me on. We’ve always lived in Marcia’s family home.’

‘Right. Well, I can see why it’s worth staying with her then.’

He flinched at her tone. ‘Ouch. I guess I deserved that. I know it must look like I’m some sort of gold-digger to you, honey, but honestly, I stay because of the kids and because … well, Marcia’s kind of … unbalanced.’

‘Is she really? That must be awkward for you.’

‘Now don’t be catty, babe – it doesn’t suit you. I need to be there for my kids. I’m the only stable thing in their lives.’ Max’s eyes misted over and his voice trembled. Emily was fooled at the time. It took her a while to realise that not only was Max a fine writer, he was also an excellent actor.

Her phone pings with an incoming message. Hmm. Sooner than she thought.

Hey, babe, missing you too. No chance of me getting over before next weekend though. Marcia’s on the skids again, and I’m in charge here. Catch up when you’re back? Love you Honeybunch xxxxxxxxxx

Honeybunch? When has he ever called her that? He must be getting his nicknames mixed up. That one most likely belongs to Marcia. Emily hesitates, but not for long. It’s time to make a decision. She’ll miss Max in so many ways, but the thought of being alone again is suddenly tempting. The relief of not having to feel guilty about Marcia will almost make up for losing her capricious, charming lover. She taps out the words that will set her free.

Max, let’s leave it here, shall we? It’s been good, but it’s over. I should have done this weeks ago. I’m sure we’ll end up at the same parties from time to time when I get back from England, and I hope we can stay friends. Take care, Emily

She sends the text and then turns her phone off. It’s done, and she doesn’t feel nearly as depressed as she’d expected. A long, hot soak in the tub is what’s needed now, followed by an evening of crappy TV and several bowls of Ben & Jerry’s. And before she goes to bed, she’ll write herself a reminder to stay clear of men, especially the kind with super-sized egos, and wives back home. It’s the only way to stay sane.

Ida Carnell’s lounge is the sort of room that Julia usually tries to avoid. For one thing it’s so stuffy in here, with all the windows firmly closed. Then there’s the overload of occasional tables, footstools and pouffes just waiting to be tripped over, and the heavy abundance of knick-knacks on every available surface is enough to bring on a migraine in someone who hates clutter.

It’s the first time Julia’s been to a social event of any kind since Don’s death, and she’s feeling strangely disorientated and vulnerable, as if her skin’s too thin. She’d tried to get out of it, but nobody manages to go against the flow for long when Ida has her heart set on something.

‘Here’s the last one of us. I’m so glad you could all come at such short notice, especially on a Tuesday night when some of you should really be at choir practice,’ says Ida, ushering in George Kennedy. ‘Cliff sends his apologies – he’s minding the restaurant. Have a seat, George, and I’ll get us all a drink. Coffee, tea or something stronger?’

The other members of the Adopt-a-Granny scheme glance at each other furtively. Julia can tell they all want to go for the more exciting option but nobody wants to look like a lush. She takes pity on them.

‘I’d love some white wine, Ida, if that’s not putting you out?’ she says.

There’s a collective sigh of relief, and everyone else puts in their orders quickly. Soon George and Tristram are each nursing a large gin and tonic, Dominic Featherstone, who lives in May’s old house, has lager, and Ida, Julia and Gladys Mountbatten from the garden centre are clutching huge glasses of chardonnay. Only Vera from the village shop is looking disapproving, virtuously sipping an orange juice. Ida’s a generous hostess – she’s provided top-quality Kettle Chips and little bowls of olives and nuts for her guests – and soon the atmosphere is nearly as warm as the room.

‘Right, I’ll get on with the business in hand,’ says Ida. ‘Tristram, would you mind taking the minutes?’

‘Ooh, very official,’ Vera says. ‘I thought this was just a friendly chat to see how the scheme was going, Ida?’

‘Yes, but I always like to have something in writing. It saves trouble if we forget what’s said. Agreed?’

The others all nod. Julia thinks it would take a brave person to disagree.