Maddie Please - The Summer of Second Chances - The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

‘Bf?’

‘Best friend. He said you’d invited him and his wife to a party here on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Ah yes, I did.’

‘What bloody party? Don’t you think you should invite me first?’ I said.

‘Sorry, darling, I forgot to tell you, but strike while the iron’s hot, eh? We were at the golf club and got talking. He sounded very pleased indeed. Friendly, wanted to bring some champagne. That’s the sort of party guest I like.’

Ian held out an arm, I went to kiss him and then put the milk into the fridge.

‘Well, Jess is nice. We’ve had lunch quite a few times—’

‘You didn’t tell me!’

‘You didn’t ask. You’ve been so wrapped up in work recently. She’s fun. A bit loud, very friendly, lots of flashy jewellery, but Greg’s a bit of a sleaze ball, isn’t he?’

Ian’s head came up, indignant. ‘He’s not! Why would you say that?’

‘Too much aftershave, gold man bracelet.’

‘No, he’s not, Lottie. He could be very important to us right at this minute if only you realised it. He’s just bought one of those huge hybrids. A Mitsubishi something. I pretended I wanted to know about mpg. I went and looked it up in What Car .’ He gave me a look filled with meaning. ‘He must be loaded. He’s sold his business in Spain for a fair old sum by the sounds of it and he’s looking to invest in property development over here. We could do very well out of him. If he wanted us to shove in a couple of the new Windermere kitchens I was telling you about it would be a godsend. He’s blue-sky thinking.’

‘Huh?’

This was not the sort of thing Ian usually said.

‘He’s thinking outside the box.’

And nor was that. It seemed Greg was having quite an influence already.

Ian opened another email and began to read it.

‘What box?’ I said, wondering if he knew.

Ian didn’t answer for a moment. He stabbed at the keys of his laptop and frowned.

‘Look, I’ll explain another time. I need to fire off a few emails this morning. There’s been a bit of a hiccup.’

‘Oh, not work?’

‘Isn’t it always?’ Ian pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be in the study.’

I looked at the clock, which incorrectly said twenty-seven minutes past eight. I couldn’t reach it and I’d been waiting for Ian to get it down and change the battery for weeks.

‘Give me half an hour and I’ll sort out some lunch,’ I said.

I looked over at him. He looked rather pale and a thin film of sweat gleamed on his upper lip.

‘Are you OK, darling?’

‘Yes, yes fine.’

He didn’t look fine.

‘What’s the matter?’

He hesitated in the doorway, tapping his phone against his thigh.

‘Nothing, nothing. Bloody hell, you do go on sometimes.’

Well, that wasn’t fair.

He went off towards his study and I heard him close the door behind him.

I made some vegetable soup and heated up some pitta bread to go with the hummus in the fridge – always Ian’s favourite lunch. I heard him go off upstairs after a few minutes and then heard the rumble of the pump as he turned on the water in the wet room. I went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Usually he sang in the shower, snatches of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ if he was feeling particularly cheerful. Today there was silence.

I went back to stirring the soup and flicked another, pointless look at the clock. Perhaps I should get the stepladder out and change the battery myself?

Ian came down after a few minutes, dressed in chinos and a dazzlingly white polo shirt. He wasn’t going into work then. His hair was wet and rumpled from the shower, showing up the thinning bald spot he was usually so careful to disguise. His face was grim. He went to stand at the sink, looking out across the frosty garden.

I bit back the obvious question; what was the matter? I knew it would provoke an outburst of some sort. It must be something to do with his company. I knew business had been bad over the last few months with the economic downturn. These days, not many people seemed to want the hand-built kitchens Ian’s firm provided.

‘Lunch is ready, darling, come and sit down. We were busy in the practice this morning. Nothing too interesting but…’

Ian turned on his heel and stamped past me. ‘Oh for God’s sake. I don’t want any fucking lunch, I’m going out.’

He grabbed his coat from the hallstand and slung it on, one arm struggling down a sleeve.

I followed him into the hallway. ‘Honestly, who rattled the bars of your cage?’

Ian patted his pockets for his car keys and didn’t answer.

‘Why not have something to eat first? It wouldn’t take a minute,’ I said.

‘I’ve got things to do.’

I put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, I can tell something’s wrong. What’s the matter, darling? Can I help?’

He shook me off. ‘No, you fucking can’t help.’

‘Ian! There must be—’

‘Just shut up, Lottie,’ he yelled.

‘Don’t be so bloody rude!’

‘Leave me alone. This isn’t anything you can help with; you’ve done enough already. Spending like it’s going out of fashion. Holidays. New car. Shoes. God knows how many handbags. Grow up! What did you think would happen?’

‘What?’ I staggered back in astonishment. This was not like Ian at all.

‘And it’s me that has to sort it all out, isn’t it? You just carry on blithely, arranging expensive parties, frittering away.’

‘Hang on a minute. You’re the one who wants this party, not me!’

He threw me a furious look and slammed the front door behind him so the air between us shuddered.

‘And I’ve only got seven handbags!’ I shouted after him. ‘And one of those is a fake!’

I went into the living room and watched him through the window as he unlocked his car, dropped his keys on the drive, picked them up and threw his briefcase into the passenger seat before driving off in a spray of gravel. He turned left out of the drive – he definitely wasn’t going to work. I stood watching the road, wondering if he would come back but he didn’t.

I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, leafing through a pile of catalogues. I’d seen a lovely pair of suede boots in one of them, perhaps if Ian was starting to complain about my spending I’d better not buy them. I sat leafing through some others until I realised an hour had passed and Ian still wasn’t back. I went back to look out of the window, worrying, biting my nails, wondering what had happened. What had I done to provoke this sort of reaction? Everything had been all right until…until he got that email. Some business problem. Of course. I’m a lot of things and one of them is nosey.

I went into his study, my bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the new carpet he had insisted he needed, in case he was going to take business contacts in there for a drink or something. The room was stuffy and dark, the curtains nearly closed. I drew them back and let the sunlight in. Dust motes spun in the warm air. I opened a window, letting in the cold afternoon to freshen up the atmosphere.

On his desk were piles of paperwork. Estimates, delivery notes, all fastened together with big bulldog clips. His massive iMac computer was turned off and there was a yellow Post-it note stuck on the side; Bentham Tuesday 11.30. It meant nothing to me. The printer stood silent in the corner. The bin was filled with shredded paper.

Feeling rather uncomfortable, I sidled up to the wire in-tray and casually leafed through the contents. Notes from customers, queries about delivery dates, a few photographs of a kitchen Ian’s firm had recently installed. I opened a couple of the drawers but there was nothing other than a bundle of red Lovell Kitchens pens, paperclips in a china dish, a ball of elastic bands.