Linda Phillips - Puppies Are For Life

‘Anyway –’ Molly brought her back to the matter in hand – ‘what was it that triggered off the row? That is, if it’s not a state secret?’

‘No-o, no, it’s more – well – embarrassing.’ Susannah hesitated while she picked open a minuscule paper napkin. ‘I ended up throwing something at him, would you believe?’

Molly’s next look was one of amazed admiration. ‘Lord, what I would have given to see that! You, losing your cool for once, and the mighty Paul with his dignity in shreds.’ She shook her head, chuckling.

‘But I was the one who lost my dignity,’ Susannah was quick to point out. She stared miserably at her plate. ‘Paul remained his usual gentlemanly self. He just looked at me kind of stunned and walked away. Oh dear. I’m going to have to apologise this evening, I know I am, and I’m not looking forward to it one bit.’

‘Don’t do it then.’ Molly grunted. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She began to dig into a bowl of cold pasta, bringing fat rubbery twirls to her mouth in bundles of no less than six. ‘I’m sure he must have asked for it. Men usually do.’ She chewed quickly and gulped down a stream of Coke. ‘But really, I can’t imagine you two rowing. There can’t be anything to row about. You’ve got everything you could possibly want in life: more money than you really need; a cottage most people would die for. And your kids are off your hands. What more do you want, Susannah – jam on your wodge of cake? Cream on top of the jam?’

‘But – but material things aren’t everything,’ Susannah argued timidly. She stared at a distant window. ‘Molly … haven’t you ever wanted – well – personal fulfilment, I suppose is what I’m getting at? And – and recognition? Oh, not just for being a mother and a boring old pay-clerk, but for being good at something that counts ? For doing something you’ve always wanted to do and –’

But then she noticed the lines of discontent that had gathered round Molly’s lips, and was suffused with guilt. Molly was struggling to bring up three growing children on a pittance in a council house, she hadn’t had a holiday in years and there was no man in her life at all. How could she be expected to understand?

‘Oh –’ Susannah ran a hand through her short hair – ‘you don’t want to hear about my petty little problems, Molly. Let’s talk about something else.’

‘They weren’t petty little problems just now. I thought the world had come to an end.’

‘But things get on top of me at times, just like they do with anyone. Oh, I don’t know, Moll. Perhaps all the decorating’s taken it out of me.’

‘Perhaps you should take another holiday,’ Molly couldn’t help adding with more than a touch of sarcasm. The Hardings had only recently returned from a Lake District weekend in a plush hotel. They were always bombing off somewhere for ‘a little treat’.

Susannah pushed away her plate with an air of resignation. ‘OK, fair enough. So I’m a spoilt bitch. I’ve got a wonderful life and I should be grateful for it. Let’s just say I’m going through some sort of mid-life crisis and leave it at that.’ She stood up and tucked her bag under her arm. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, Molly, but I must get back to the office. I need all the Flexi I can muster for that funeral I’m going to tomorrow.’

She began to hurry away, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid hearing Molly mutter to herself: ‘Mid-life crisis my giddy aunt!’ Her tone implied that life for most people was a whole series of crises – real ones. And that Susannah didn’t know she was born.

Not a single red light. Not one tail-back of traffic. Susannah’s Peugeot hummed homeward that evening on virtual auto-pilot, leaving her too much time to think. Time to think about uncomfortable things like whether Molly was right about not apologising: should she apologise to Paul, or he to her? He had practically asked to have something thrown at him, after all.

The gears clashed from fifth to second as she changed down for the Sainsbury’s roundabout. Why should she be the one to climb down? Where had his support been when she needed it? All he had done was belittle her efforts. But then, wasn’t that what he had always done?

Her thoughts flew back to their early days together, when Simon was just a toddler and Katy no more than an infant. Paul had risen hardly any distance up the civil service ladder by then and they’d had to watch every penny he earned.

Mothers who went out to work had still been the exception rather than the rule in those days, and Susannah had never been exceptional. What could she do anyway? Jobs for the less than well qualified had been scarce and not extravagantly paid. Anything she earned would have been swallowed up in childcare costs.

She had tried to help out at home as best she could. There were the children’s clothes she’d run up from market remnants and tried to sell; the teddy bears she’d made with bells in their ears one Christmas; the rag dolls that it had been hard to get Katy to part with; lampshades; envelopes – everything you could think of.

But Paul had pooh-poohed the lot.

‘Don’t give up the day-job,’ he’d once told her, eyeing her almost-stagnant production line of headless bodies …

Susannah’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Maybe he’d meant it as a joke, but it had hurt then and it hurt now.

It had hurt last night when he’d joked about the teapot stand, which was why she had suddenly exploded. Resentment had been building up for years. Oh, she’d give anything to wipe that superior expression from his face, have him look up to her for a change, with pride and – and respect. But she couldn’t see that happening in a million years. Unless she had some success.

Success. In Paul’s book that meant making money. So that was the answer, wasn’t it? She would have to make some money, even though they were no longer greatly in need of it. It was the only measure of success that Paul and the rest of the world recognised.

And it wasn’t all pie in the sky, when you thought about it. Other women had done it before – made fortunes by making things – especially in the eighties. You could hardly pick up a magazine at one time without reading how so-and-so had begun by mixing pots of cream or make-up in their kitchen, or printing lengths of cloth in the spare room, and they’d ended up running empires. So why shouldn’t she do something similar? Of course it would mean having to suck up to that nauseating Reg Watts in the craft shop once more, but nothing ventured nothing gained, as the saying goes. Yes, that’s what she would do: she would hurry home right now, collect one of the other teapot stands … and sell it!

Harvey Webb prised himself from the warm leather interior of his Mercedes, set his face against the wind, and threw the door shut behind him. The discreet ‘clunk’ of the lock usually pleased him inordinately, only right now it hardly registered; his mind was on other things. How infuriating that he’d forgotten to get Julia something for her birthday in town!

He’d already bought her the main present – a garnet and pearl bracelet – but she liked to have lots of little things to unwrap. And the last thing he wanted right now was to disappoint Julia.

Oh, if only he had thought of it sooner. He could have scooped up armfuls of suitable tat in Bath, but all that talk with Jerry and Adam had put it right out of his head.

Or maybe too much lager had, he conceded, looking up and down the deserted village street, although to tell the truth he always seemed to be forgetting things lately. It wasn’t as if he had much to think about either. Bugger all, in fact. But these days it seemed that the more time he had to think – and the less he had to think about – the more forgetful he became. That was what redundancy did for you.