Golf Widows

Samantha Marcham

Description

With husbands that are always out playing golf - whether at the club or on trips abroad - a group of frustrated wives are thrust together every Saturday for lunch; are effectively 'Golf Widows'.But whendisaster strikeseverything changes!Already unfulfilled in theirindividualmarriages, they discovertheir devious husbands are guilty of deception andbetrayal,resulting ina supportive friendship groupbeingformed,andthe angry'Golf Widows'decide to go away to Majorca on a tripthemselves.The ladies try to make up for their lost years in just one weekWill things spiral out of control?Or will this be exactly what they need, to finally get their happy endings?

Sujets

• Golf

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803139340
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 Samantha Marcham

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.

Fernando
Words and Music by Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus and Stig Anderson
Copyright © 1975 UNIVERSAL/UNION SONGS MUSIKFORLAG AB
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Europe Ltd.

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ISBN 9781803139340

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An elderly lady once said to me, upon hearing that I was getting divorced:
“You are so lucky. I wasn’t brave enough. It wasn’t the done-thing in my day. I have wasted my life”
“I have wasted my life”… That sentence has stayed with me.

I dedicate this book to all the women out there who are struggling, either with lack of confidence, with fear, or with guilt. You might have others to look after, but don’t forget self-care. You owe it to yourself to live your best and true life. Be brave.
You are only here once!

I also dedicate this book to my darling twins Max and Olivia. You made my life complete.
I continue to be blown away and so proud of you both every single day.
Be brave and follow your dreams. Know your self-worth and have faith in yourself.
I love you so much x
Contents
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


One
BELINDA
It was a Saturday afternoon at the West Seale Golf Club in Hampshire, where a group of self-confessed golf widows greeted each other with familiarity as they arrived for their usual weekly get-together.
The circular table, around which they were now seated, was situated in a large bay window, overlooking the course. With ample light flooding in from the open green, it was the best spot in the restaurant and was already laid out in preparation for their 2pm lunch reservation. They hadn’t needed to call ahead to make their booking. The same table and the same time were set in stone, week in, week out.
Their husbands, having earlier shared a large platter of various sandwiches and sausage rolls, were already out on the green, so their wives prepared to do what they did every single week, which was to eat and share polite chat whilst they dutifully waited for their husbands to finish at 4pm.
Post-golf, the men would have a drink, or few, after which the obedient wives all drove them home around 7pm. This was what happened every Saturday, come rain or shine, but there was something different this time. Something was missing, or rather someone was missing. Belinda.
To their dismay, the golf widows genuinely felt her absence, made even more glaringly obvious by the now empty seat where she normally sat. The restaurant staff had laid five covers on this table for years. They probably didn’t even realise yet that their group was now down to four.
Janet was the first to speak. “It just doesn’t seem right. I will miss her dreadfully.”
“I don’t see why she can’t still come,” Tracey said.
Amanda replied, “She could do, but she said she’d find it too upsetting. Seeing him. The Pig.”
Louise added, “She must be so embarrassed, bless her. How could he? Belinda is the nicest person I’ve ever met.”
“She certainly didn’t deserve this,” Janet concluded.
The women solemnly devoured the poached salmon, asparagus tips and Jersey new potatoes. The food was delicious, greatly improved recently, courtesy of a new chef, which was a welcome relief to them all, but their mood was still low.
Earlier that day
Plop . A solitary tear landed in the white mountain of self-raising flour that was piled up high in an old-fashioned traditional mixing bowl. Belinda used the cuff of her plain navy Marks & Spencer jumper to wipe her eyes, keen that he didn’t catch her crying again. Not that she was ashamed. Her self-respect went AWOL the week before, when she had asked, pleaded even, that he stay. But no, the heartless bastard thought it was for the best.
“Best for who?” she had screamed. “Best for you? Best for your fancy bit?”
Belinda cried now because she was angry. Furious even. The estate agent, that her so-called husband had organised, without even having the decency to pre-warn her, had turned up that morning, and after just a few minutes of bashing, a shiny new ‘For Sale’ sign now stood proudly at the front of their garden, as though it were a good thing.
The young man who had erected it disappeared just moments after he had arrived, whistling to himself, totally oblivious of the devastation that his one minute and thirty seconds of swinging his chunky mallet had caused.
She was distraught, livid, that the home she loved, still loved, would soon be snatched, so swiftly, so unfairly, from right under her chubby nose. She seethed inwardly at the thought that some other family would now get to have the happy ever after that she had worked thirty-two years to achieve in her home, absolutely gutted that some other lucky cow would soon get to stand at the island of her beloved, perfect English country kitchen.
This wasn’t just a kitchen to Belinda; it was her favourite place in the whole wide world. Her sanctuary. Where she baked, making cakes, her true passion in life, apart from her son Max of course, but he flew the nest straight after university. It transpired that none of the men in her life needed her anymore now. She was superfluous to requirements. Redundant. Useless. Unwanted.
She had partly realised this a few years ago when Max left home to travel the world with his Rock Band ‘King’. They had hoped to become the next ‘Queen’ but he is soon to turn thirty. Surely, they should have given up by now; the big time is clearly not going to happen for them. He might have managed to earn himself a few bob, but Belinda wished he would just come home, get a steady job, meet a local girl and give her a few grandchildren in as quick succession as possible. She would never tell him this of course because she wanted him to be happy, so she had done the decent thing, had wished him well, along with a huge chunk of her savings, and she’d waited until after he’d left until she sobbed for her loss. Her loss of her role as a mother.
If she had been honest with herself, and not stuck her head in the sand, like the pathetic, weak woman that she was, she should have seen this day coming. Roger had always been a selfish sod, but since Max had left, she had hardly seen him. He was always out; if not working, he was on his beloved golf course.
She had consoled herself with her baking, consuming almost as much as she gave away to friends. She looked down at herself, ashamed of her bulging, sticky-out tummy and the handles of fat surrounding her wide hips and spilling over the top of her size sixteen jeans. No wonder he is leaving me , she thought. I only have myself to blame . What man would want a whale of a wife when he could have a minx of a mistress? Even more sickening was that the minx was only thirty-flippin’-one, only a year older than their own son. How on earth could she compete with that? Belinda was fifty-five, and she looked it.
Who was she fooling? There was no competition. It was game over, and she was the loser.
At least the skinny bitch wouldn’t be getting her kitchen though, thank God. Neither of them could afford to buy the other out, so Roger was insisting that they sell up. It was alright for him – he didn’t give a toss about their beautiful home. He wanted to buy a swanky, modern apartment in the town centre with his half of the sale proceeds. Apparently, he and the minx wanted to be able to stroll out to trendy bars and restaurants without having to drive home to the boring old sticks.
Poor Belinda loved where she lived, in the leafy Hampshire village of Seale. It would kill her to leave, but it would have certainly finished her off if the minx was going to get her home as well as her husband. She looked down at the cream marble Venetian worktop that matched her cream trusty old Aga. She stroked it lovingly, thinking of the years that she had spent in that kitchen. She’d baked a cake at this island for every single birthday that Max has ever had, as well as for the many special occasions of her friends too.
“Belinda, would you mind baking a cake for so-and-so?” they would request, and she was always only too happy to oblige. She was genuinely proud of he