Don't Bother To Dress Up

Maly Sayle

Description

Lizzie was an army child. She went on to marry an army officer and believed a life or routine and order would follow. But after 34 years of, relatively, happy married life she received the bombshell that her overweight, balding husband was leaving her for a Polish woman 20 years her junior. Within a month Lizzie was single, penniless, about to be homeless and very, very angry. It was also becoming obvious her mother was fast heading towards full dementia. The stability and help that Lizzie had hoped to give her aging parents was heading out the window, along with her husband's clothes and possessions.After the sale of her home, Lizzie moves into the spare room of her daughter Lucy's flat. A situation somewhat complicated by Lucy, at the same time, setting up a sex party business. For the next six months Lizzie shared the room with condoms, sex toys and champagne. When life could not seem to be any stranger, Lucy then decided to sign her mother up on Times Encounters, an on-line dating service. And then the fun really began.It was time of chaos, laughter, tears and a lot of very interesting encounters.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 13 août 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838595821
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Maly Sayle

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781838595821

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For Emma, Georgie and JonJon
who were always there through the hard times.
For my sister Nicola, without whose love and support this book would never have been completed.
Finally for Nick, my wonderful Yorkshireman.
Contents
Prologue

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Prologue
I’m pouring my second glass of wine. It’s ten thirty in the morning. This second glass is to keep the first glass company. I look out of the kitchen window at the skip, now filled to the brim with my once precious possessions that now just look like crap to me. I’m going to have to order a second skip
I’d still be on the first glass if this bloody woman, together with her aggressive looking husband and morose teenage son , hadn’t turned up YET AGAIN to see the house. They’ve prattled on about ‘possibly’ making an offer. What does that even mean? Maybe it’s a hobby and they just spend weekends wandering around people’s houses. I found it a little disconcerting on their first visit when she checked the contents of my fridge but now, watching her on her fourth visit, checking the contents of my fridge again, I’m past caring. Mind you, if she touches the wine I’ll rip her head off.
“Is that your husband getting a ladder out of the back of his van?” I ask, leaning against the cooker, slowly sipping my wine.
“Yes. Hope you don’t mind but he’s going to check the roof out”.
“Knock yourselves out,” I say, praying he slides off and does precisely that.
Dear God. Will someone PLEASE make a bloody offer on the bloody house.
I sway my way upstairs and carry on sifting through William’s shoes. I take one shoe from each pair and chuck it out of the bedroom window. Some land in the skip. Most hit the roof of fridge roof inspecting family’s van. That’ll be a nice surprise for them when they get home. Maybe they have a one-legged friend with a penchant for thity five year old Gucci loafers. I chuck the remaining single shoes back in the cupboard.
Next, the suits. I go at them with the electric carving knife William bought me as an anniversary present two years ago. I imagine it’s him I’m slicing and not his suits. As I rip my way through pinstripe, tweed and wool I hear a yelp and catch sight of the roof inspector as he drops past the window. A satisfying thud as he lands on the ground.
I suppose I could have warned him about the loose roof tiles but I have others things on my mind.
Roof fridge checkers are now inspecting the paintwork in the house. As I make my way downstairs I hear whispered comments such as “What made them pick that colour I wonder”. I look out of the window into the garden and can still make out Ed’s crude painting of a naked fat man on the fence – the fence his father had told him to paint. Four coats later and I can still see it.
My unfriendly neighbours, on getting a whiff of ‘family drama’ had taken to trimming the hedge that divided the properties every time William and I had a row. We had a lot of those over the past week. The once seven foot tall hedge is now down to four feet in some places.
It was a particularly bad day, when I caught them, shears in hand (who buys two sets of shears?), snipping away. I had been touching up the bathroom with white paint when I spotted them. I went out, painting of naked fat bloke in plain sight on the fence. They stopped snipping. Mouths agape.
“What’s your problem?” I asked, wielding the paint brush in a threatening manner and pointing at the fence. “Did we miss something off?”
I haven’t seen them since.
I just need to hang onto my sanity until the house is sold. I’ll store what I need for a one or two bedroom flat. Perhaps with a little balcony where I can grow some plants. Maybe even a small cottage, nothing fancy. One of those sweet two up, two downs that have been done up. Some of them have amazing kitchens I think, as I put the kettle on for a well needed cup of instant coffee.
“Ma!”
At six foot five and, if I say so myself, bloody handsome, Ed exudes a sense of ease. I mean, not many people mess with someone that size. He’s a gentle giant. Still attempting to show an interest at Oxford Brookes Uni but struggling.
‘In the kitchen!’
Ed appears from the side of the house. Bottle of wine in hand. Well trained.
‘You look like shit.’ Clearly there’s more to be done on the subtlety front.
‘Thanks!’
I am led into the garden where he sits us both down, hands me the wine bottle and holds out a badly rolled cigarette.
‘Spliff?’
‘Ed!’ I say. Shock horror. Indignation. Tempted.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
Ed puts his arm round me.
‘I’m a wise man and wise man say you need to chill out.’
I’ve never smoked a spliff in my life. I’d never taken any drugs. Ever. Would this lead me on the path of wrack and ruin? Would I end up homeless and living in a cardboard box under a bridge?
Ed lit the spliff, took a puff. Passed it to me and went in to get two glasses. I inhaled deeply. Coughed until my eyes watered. My head started spinning. I’ll probably get a tumour. I’m going to die. They’ll find me and say it was a drug overdose. Can’t I even get stoned without it turning into a drama.
Ed seemed to read my thoughts as he returned and sat back down. ‘You’re not going to die.”
Damn.
“How’s the packing going?”
“Not much packing. A lot of throwing and slicing.”
Ed nodded. Took a drag on the spliff. Held it in. Passed the joint to me.
‘How’s the selling going?’ he says, sounding like Micky Mouse. I giggled. Took a puff.
“Fridge family came back; with a ladder. He went up on the roof.”
“Maybe he just likes to get away from his wife,” Ed giggled.
“He fell off! I saw him. Whoosh! Past the window.”
This set us both off. We wept with laughter. We couldn’t stop. I hadn’t laughed that much in, I don’t know how long. It felt wonderful.
I looked through the window and spotted the fridge roof checkers and, before I could engage brain, which bizarrely seemed to have shut down, I yelled at the top of my (croaky) voice “Get the fuck out of my house!” I’m not sure who was more shocked. Me, Ed or them. They took off with speed, chucking ladder in the back of their van, disappearing in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
“Ma! I have never heard you swear before!”
Again we found ourselves lying on the grass, crying with laughter.
We made feeble attempts at packing but gave up when we found a whole packet of chocolate digestives and some ‘meat based’ microwave meals in the freezer.
I vaguely remember Ed tucking me into bed. I felt happy. Reassured that life wasn’t going to end. That I could cope. I pulled the duvet over my head.
One
Six weeks earlier.
My old-fashioned alarm clock clangs. It’s six thirty. I scramble for the little slider and switch it off. Squint at my mobile. It’s six thirty on there as well. The radio alarm bellows into life with the DJ yelling that it’s ‘MONDAY’ and apparently ‘A GREAT DAY!’
Good to know.
I quickly run through the day’s meetings in my head.
Ten thirty meeting with potential donor.
Twelve thirty lunch with William . I Haven’t seen or spoken to him since Friday morning and why he has to work over a weekend is beyond me but I send him a quick text.
Still on for lunch?
An immediate reply
Yes. 12.30.
Blimey. An immediate reply. It usually takes William an hour to reply while he checks that I’m not a spy or someone pretending to be me in order to gather information from him. His background in ‘espionage’, as he insists on calling it, has left him with an almost psychotic obsession with any kind of communication. This is a source of endless amusement to me and the children. William’s never ‘busy’ – changing a lightbulb, buying groceries – he’s always ‘on assignment’.
Three thirty – Events meeting with Shirley.
Four thirty – Visit venue for fund