‘Of course, yes. The lads and I are due to meet the Pro at eight thirty.’
‘Oh! A group session.’ She smiled as if it were fresh news and stepped over Captain George as he stretched out on the floor between the boot room and the kitchen. Loveable old goat. She adored that dog. Couldn’t bear to think of the day when he’d—
She’d take him out on one of his favourite walks this weekend if the weather brightened seeing as Stuart would be at the golf club, which was more often than not, these days. Now that the club had that new indoor robot thing that corrected his swing. There were three other retired pilot’s wives who could say the same. The same three wives who met for coffee ‘down the village’, talking on and on about how difficult it was having their pilot husbands home, underfoot all the time, messing up the lounge, the boot room, the ensuite. Flo couldn’t bear it. The predictability of it all. It was why she actively sought out jobs that required Saturday help.
Three months back, after the charity shop she’d worked in had been forced to close its doors, she’d thought of retraining as a therapist, but Oxford traffic was becoming too tricky to negotiate. Even more so now that the optician had bullied her into wearing the varifocals. She’d tried one of those on-line courses for counselling but found the lack of human interaction tedious. No one spoke to one another anymore. No one listened. Even their cleaner wore headsets. All of which left Flo with precisely nothing to do round the house now that they weren’t breeding the Wolfhounds any longer (too much time in Portugal made that awkward, plus the neighbour girl had gone off to uni to study accountancy rather than veterinary sciences – not got the grades – but she’d always been such a help during whelping), so what on earth was she meant to do with her time? She was hardly on the brink of death! When she’d seen the advert for 111 call handlers, she decided she may as well help people who thought they were.
‘Darling,’ Stuart set down his pen and gave his wife one of those gentle smiles that meant he was going to try and reason with her about something. ‘If this is about you having more pin money …’
She held up her hand. It wasn’t the money.
She had her pension and Stuart was always very generous, having done very well at BA. So well he’d ‘earned the right to sit and read the paper all day long’ if he wanted to.
For twelve years?
Honestly.
She’d die of anxiety reading about all of those people out there in the world doing something with their lives.
She tugged the zip up on her coat.
The man was too reliable.
She’d liked it at first. His predictability. After all, you wouldn’t want a madman behind the controls of a jumbo jet would you? She’d ached to be a teenager in the sixties. Went proper wild when the saucy Seventies bloomed. Love-ins and flower power were all the rage by the time she’d realized her future was not in a factory or behind a typewriter and had been taken on as an air hostess in the mid-Seventies. When Stu started joining her at the bars in Swingapore, Rio and Cape Town, it had been like having a straight man to her mad trolly dolly. The King’s right-hand man to her Princess Margaret.
Now it was just a bit tedious. Wasn’t he interested in throwing caution to the wind? Making good on the years-old promises to properly explore the world? To live? He’d done all the boring bits. Made the right investments, built a healthy pension, owned their house and the villa in Portugal, but oh, the tedium. There was not enough gold in the world to relieve the ennui that came with being married to a man who relished his retirement. Her very own cover boy for Saga.
She did love him. And the children. But she and Stu were getting older, not younger, so why waste all of this valuable time doing puzzles while they were able bodied?
One shift at 111 would light a fire under him. She was sure of it. Discovering just how old folk could be. How frail. How helpless. On the other hand, there was always the risk he’d be comforted by his routine. Confirmation that it ‘kept him out of trouble.’
All of which meant speaking to hysterical strangers on the telephone added that gritty bit of frisson to her life she needed to stay smiley.
It made her feel terrifically guilty, of course. Whining about having a perfectly lovely life. Especially with that sweetheart Sue finding her husband dangling from the loft. It must’ve been terrifying. Flo’s husband might not have much zest for life but at least he enjoyed having one.
She stripped her tone of snippiness. ‘I’m just doing my part for society is all, darling.’ She blew him a kiss then dug into her handbag for her keys. She never could find the ruddy things.
Stuart leant back in his chair and tapped his pen on the folded newspaper. ‘You’ve not forgotten we’re out tonight, have you?’
‘No, love. I’ve got it clocked.’ She tapped the side of her head, then continued to forage for her keys.
They went out for Valentine’s Day. Every year. Flowers. Dinner for two down the hotel (the one nice restaurant in the village but not so far that they didn’t have to worry about having a glass or two). They’d inevitably discuss when they’d next head to Portugal (already booked) and debate whether or not they should invite the children along (decided). She regularly voted ‘no children’, hoping for a bit of an adventure whereas Stuart loved the close access to the golf course the gated community offered and knew inviting the children meant they would be tied to the villa. He loved it. Loved it all. Reading the same stories to the grandchildren
