It was Jess, for once ahead of us in the alcohol stakes. As I looked over her shoulder, I saw why. Dutch courage. Basil Asquith, MP for Infidelity, was standing behind her. This was unheard of. Basil was never seen in public without his wife and a Hello! photography team. Jess must have used every threat in the book to get him here. Go girl! She was always moaning about being apparently manless at every party, but I never thought she’d do anything about it.
Suddenly, from behind me, there was a loud, sharp intake of breath. I turned to see George, Carol’s boyfriend, staring at Basil with undisguised fury.
Basil looked up just in time to see a hand grab his throat and push him with the force of a torpedo through the crowd and out of the front door. The rest of us gawped in amazement.
We ran after them and reached the front door in time to see George knock Basil to the ground with a right hook that would have done Frank Bruno proud. Basil tried to get back up, but his legs were obviously blancmange.
George straightened up, marched back inside and informed Carol that he was leaving. When she made no move to join him, he did an about turn and marched straight out to his chauffeur-driven limo, which then roared off.
Jess ran outside to apply emergency first aid. One of the benefits of being a mistress is that while the unfaithful tossers are maintaining appearances by doing their one night a week out with their wives, you get to sit in every Saturday night and watch Casualty.
Kate turned to Carol, who was still open mouthed and rooted to the spot. ‘Do you think maybe he didn’t like his tie?’ she volunteered weakly.
There was more screeching of tyres outside. It was Basil fleeing the scene.
Jess wandered back in, looking dazed. We got her a seat and a brandy, whilst fanning her with napkins and shouting ‘stand back, there’s nothing to see here’.
‘What happened? What was that all about?’ Carol, who’d regained the power of speech, asked.
Jess looked up, still dazed, and shrugged her shoulders as she said lamely to Carol, ‘How was I supposed to know that “George” was George Milford? You never mentioned his surname.’
‘What’s the problem with that?’ Carol persisted.
Jess whispered something. We all stooped to hear.
‘George is Basil’s wife’s brother.’
I had a feeling Jess’s life was about to get as complicated as mine.
I arrive at Mum’s flat and let myself in with the door key that’s hidden under the mat. She’s still a neighbourhood watch nightmare. It’s so strange having no ties to my mother’s home. She sold the family house when she divorced my dad and bought this two bedroom flat in the South Side of the city. She got an extra room for Michael, in case he came back after Uni, but he never did, moving in with his buddies initially, and then, when he landed a job, finding his own place in the West End. Dad lives a few miles away, but they don’t have much contact. That ship has well and truly sailed and I honestly believe it’s better for both of them – they were miserable together.
I shout a hello, but there’s no answer. There’s a note on the fridge.
Carly, darling,
Have gone to the health farm.
Will be back in a week or so. Make yourself at home.
Love, Mum
PS. Please ask Mr Roberts at number 39 to clean the stairs. He only charges £5.
So much for my welcoming party. It’s not that I expected banners in the street or anything, but a hello and a hug would have been nice. Still, at least if she’s on Ivan’s back – not an image I want in my mind – then she’s not, metaphorically, on mine.
God knows what she thinks of my latest escapade. Or what she will think when I eventually pluck up the courage to tell her. All I’ve told her was that I was coming to Glasgow and that I’d need a bed for a couple of nights. I’m still a complete wimp when it comes to Maw Walton. I even bribed Callum and Michael with Boss ties not to turn me in. I wish beyond words that they were here, even if it does make me feel totally inadequate to see how they’ve both achieved so much and got exactly the lives they aspired to.
But there’s still hope. I’ve got eight months until my target date of the millennium to sort my life out. Despite the odd moment of doubt, when I worry that I’ve completely lost the plot, I’m still absolutely sure that I’m doing the right thing. How many other women of my age have no house to clean, no kids to worry about, no job to get stressed over? I contemplate this for a moment, before the rational side of my brain adds, no money, no prospects, no future.
Anyway, for all I know I could be snogging Mr Right within the week. Nick Russo is target number one and from what I remember, he has definite potential, even if he didn’t keep his promise to track me down one day and whisk me off into the sunset. I can’t believe that was more than a decade ago. He probably doesn’t even remember being in Benidorm.
The familiar gurgle of excitement rises up from my stomach. Or it may just be a longing for a hangover bacon sandwich.
There’s not so much as a pint of milk in the fridge, so I head off to Tesco. I can’t help but be amused. Here was I setting off for the epic adventure of my life and on day one I’m in the dairy aisle at Tesco’s. I hope this isn’t an omen.
I’m so busy contemplating my predicament that I smash into a fellow shopper as I turn into
