She let her hands drop to Stu’s shoulders, tweaking his shirt collar out of his jumper and trying not to notice just how thin his hair was becoming as a new segment began on the telly across the kitchen.
‘Would you look at that!’ Flo said when the piece had ended. It had been about Africa and taking advantage of inexpensive flights. She gave her hands a squirt of moisturizer. All of that bright blue sky, combined with the high heating Stu insisted upon this time of year, made her hands feel dry. Stuart looked up from his paper, bemused. Flo tipped her head towards the telly. ‘Kev’s trying to convince Kath to go on a safari in South Africa. Last chance to see the white hippos.’ Or was it black? They hadn’t actually mentioned the hippos, but wildlife was always a good way to get her husband’s attention. David Attenborough boxsets were a Christmas staple in their home.
Stuart’s forehead crinkled as his gaze returned to the paper. ‘Who’s doing what?’
‘Kev!’ Flo said as if she’d just been discussing one of their children and not a morning chat show host. ‘Off the telly. He wants his wife to go on safari with him. South Africa.’ She enunciated the name of the country sumptuously as if she were Marilyn Monroe saying di-a-monds.
Stu nodded without looking up, but … ohhh … there it was. He cocked his head to the side and she could almost hear his pilot brain whir into action. Maybe this time …?
‘They’d be best avoiding Jo’burg. Cape Town is safer.’
Flo bit back an irritated humph. Safe schmaif. Didn’t he yearn for an adrenaline rush? The thrill of wondering … will this be the time I tempt the fates?
She gave him a meaningful stare.
Nothing.
Stu had really lost the knack for picking up her dropped hints these days. A safari would make such a nice change to their quarterly trips to the villa. It was spoiled to complain, but if they went back to Portugal one more time …
So what if Jo’burg was a bit dangerous these days? They used to fly in all of the time, no problem. Go out on the town. Find some great little shebeen to enjoy music and shots of stomach-scalding hooch. She loved those little … what did they call them? Those spicy barbecued shrimp. They’d near enough set Stu’s mouth on fire the last time they’d been. She’d wept with laughter as he’d guzzled glass after glass of milk. Oh, those had been the days. Back when she’d wielded the power of persuasion.
Stuart’s pencil hovered above his puzzle. Lowered. Lifted again. Taptaptap against the table before the process began again.
It drove her mad. The pencil tapping. And why didn’t he man up and use a pen? Would it really be the end of the world if he couldn’t fix a mistake? Take a bit of a risk, man! Use ink! Fly into Jo’burg! There was no appreciating the ups without a few troughs on the old heart monitor, was there? Unlike most of the other flight attendants, she used to enjoy a bit of mid-flight turbulence. Great stories to recount at the bar later on with the rest of the crew. Toupees taking flight. Cocktails spilt in awkward locations. Hands grabbing things they shouldn’t. She was running rather short on them now. Hair-raising stories for Saturday afternoons when ‘The Golf Gang’ all sat down to order their grilled chicken or steamed fish at the club.
She tuned back in as Kev finished a tedious bit on winter tyre safety. He turned to Kath and told her how lucky she was to be married to him, a man who could change a tyre without having to call the AA.
Good grief. He was ever so fond of his own voice. Rattling on, never giving the poor woman a chance to reply, unless, of course, he was using her as the butt end of one of his ridiculous jokes.
Flo was half tempted to tweet in with a Kath and Kev challenge. Get the pair of them to change a tyre right there in the studio. Or better yet, out in the rain. Flo would happily bet cold hard cash Kev was more vain than capable and that Kath would win hands down.
She jabbed the remote at the telly and turned it off. ‘That poor woman,’ she clucked.
‘Who?’
‘The one we’ve just been watching, Stu. Kath off the telly. Married to Kev?’ Nothing. She pointed to the wall mounted screen. ‘On Brand New Day.’
A blank look met her expectant one.
Astonishing. It was the exact same show she had on every weekday morning ever since she’d gone off that smug, baby-faced lad on the ITV. She liked that they recorded it up the road in Birmingham and the fact that it was on Channel 4 made her feel as if she was still tapping into the edgier realms of morning TV. The edgier realms of herself. ‘Anyway,’ she said, unable to resist pressing her point. ‘It’s a shame. The way he always has to get one over on her.’
‘Why watch it if it upsets you?’
Oh, Stu.
It didn’t upset her. It got her fired up. In a good way. The same way wearing short skirts and being called a slag had in the 70s. It made her want to do something. Change something.
Besides, Brand New Day was bright. Fun. Downright silly at times which made sense for a couple who’d met doing freestyle disco dancing in Blackpool. Or was it ballroom? Either way, they didn’t put on airs and graces and watching it made her feel young. Apart from the little bits they did on old folk’s homes. She muted those bits or did the breakfast dishes. She’d send herself off to The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel before her children booked her and
