Big Girls Don’t Die – Sample Chapters

Chapter 1

Bernie and I were trying to decide how much someone might pay for a pair of 1960s black vinyl thigh boots with spiked heels. We’d both wanted to try them on, but they were a size four and we weren’t. At Bernie’s Bazaar, we sell a lot of vintage stuff, so finding the kinky boots in a cardboard box labelled ‘Tupperware’ hadn’t really surprised us. I checked on eBay and found a few pairs, but none as nice as ours.

Bernie shrugged. “Put twenty quid on them and we’ll see if anyone bites.”

He was surrounded by more dusty old boxes that we’d discovered under the stairs. The shop had been given a makeover outside and that had prompted us to try and tidy up a bit inside. The cluttered space didn’t look any neater, but we’d moved things around and unearthed a few interesting items.

“There’s a box of my old loon pants here somewhere,” Bernie said. “I had a little Singer sewing machine and used to let in triangles of paisley to widen the flares.”

Of course Bernie had a sewing machine. If you look up ‘camp’ on Wikipedia, there’s a photo of Bernie Butterworth. He’s five foot nothing with a face like a pixie’s grandpa. His hair is pure white, sticking up in jelled spikes and the round glasses with red plastic frames make him look like a retired children’s TV presenter. He’s been my boss since I came back to town six months ago. Bernie made me laugh at a time when I didn’t have a lot to laugh about. He sang ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ – the Frankie Valli song – in a Bee Gees falsetto and made me join in. I had to sing the bass parts. It took my mind off things.

We were an odd pair. He’s a gay hobbit and I’m the size of a house with lots of curves and wavy brown hair straight out of the fifties. I sing jazz classics and he’s strictly disco, but we both know enough chart hits for us to duet when there’s no one in the shop. The woman who lives upstairs sometimes bangs on the floor with a broom handle, but we don’t care.

“Millicent, my dear, I think it’s time for coffee.” Bernie dusted off his hands and pulled himself up onto the chrome-legged bar stool he kept behind the counter. Sitting on that, he can look customers in the eye.

And yes, my mother named me Millicent. Millicent Alexandra Culpepper. Maybe she thought a big girl needed a big name. Eight-and-a-half pounds, natural birth – I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me. To most people I’m Millie, but Bernie occasionally uses what he calls my Sunday name.

In the little kitchen at the back of the shop, we have worn and cracked Formica worktops and a big chrome coffee machine. You pour Colombian beans in the top and it’ll grind them and brew the perfect strength while you steam your milk with the little spout on the side. The smell is heavenly, and it makes me think I’m a barista. We also have a vintage windmill-shaped biscuit barrel filled with cinnamon cookies. Well, it’s full at the beginning of the day.

The little bell over the door tinkled as I was bringing out our extra-large lattes. An older couple in his ‘n’ hers blue nylon cagoules came in. They didn’t look like kinky boots types, but you never can tell. After nodding a greeting at Bernie, they wandered over to the glass-fronted cabinets where we keep the things we think are proper antiques. They were probably hoping to find a bit of René Lalique or some Clarice Cliff that we’d failed to identify. No chance – we watch Antiques Roadshow too.

The husband soon got bored and sidled over to the corner where we put the weird stuff that’s popular with college students. Planet of the Apes masks, crystal skulls, a couple of Kermit the Frogs, and a longbow that Bernie claims was used on a Robin Hood television show. There’s loads of other stuff there, but I’m too young to recognise most of it. Honest. The man in the cagoule looked over his shoulder to see if his wife was looking, then reached for a pink Rolls-Royce from the original Thunderbirds. I felt pretty sure he’d leave with either that or a Dalek.

Bernie and I sipped our lattes, smiling as we wiped foam off our lips. It was moments like this that made me think I’d made the right choice in coming back.

Hawksley is a small town surrounded by stunning English scenery – forests, streams, and limestone cliffs – but there’s not much else to it. Its claim to fame is a cheese that no one’s heard of. There’s a small railway station that connects us to the city, a cinema that used to be a bingo hall, and on the outskirts near the housing estate is a decent-sized supermarket. We’ve got two thoroughfares lined with shops, Main Street and High Street, and a library that keeps being threatened with closure. On Fridays, the council puts up stalls with canvas roofs for a market in the town square. There used to be half a dozen pubs, but now we’ve got two. The Poacher’s Arms is where the ordinary folk drink while The Pheasant Inn attracts ordinary people who think they’re better than everyone else.

It’s not a town people write songs about, but it’s as close to being home as I’m likely to get. Hawksley is where I spent most of my childhood and teenage years. Back then, I dreamed of escaping to somewhere more exciting. When the going got tough, I came crawling back. Not because my mother is here – I wouldn’t have come back if she was. She’s over in Kimberley living with a man called Linus. He’s got long grey hair in a ponytail and all his skin is loose, brown, and wrinkled – like a scrotum. Mum seems happy enough with him and I suppose that’s all that matters. They live in a nice semi-detached bungalow filled with Ikea furniture and they have a green glass bong on the sideboard. Bernie sold it to them. My mum says it’s a vase but she’s not fooling anyone.

Why do newly single women head back to their old home town? Is it the comfort of something familiar? Or are we going back along the road we’d taken to try and spot where we made a wrong turn? We come back to a place where things seemed okay and then set off again in the hope of picking the right route this time. The one that ends in happily ever after. Yeah, right.

Here’s the short version – I don’t want to linger over the details. I was the lead singer in a band with my boyfriend and a couple of his old friends. We did the pub circuit and an occasional wedding gig. And we had a bit of success with a video on YouTube. No, I’m not going to tell you the name of the band or the song. Then my boyfriend of almost four years told me he’d met someone new. And she was a singer. I told him I hoped he and Yoko would be very happy together. That’s a lie. Her name was Candice and I punched him. If you’ve got a bridge to burn, always use a flamethrower I say. Do I still sound bitter? I didn’t sing for a while. Not until Bernie tricked me into a duet.

The bell over the door tinkled again.

“Oh, no, look what the cat dragged in,” Bernie muttered, setting down his empty mug.

The woman in the doorway looked like she’d wandered onto the stage of the wrong play. Her hairdo was modelled on that of the late Queen, and she wore a moss green wool jacket and skirt and a cream silk blouse. The black-rimmed glasses were the kind that make you look like you’re always frowning. They suited her. She didn’t look like the sort of person who went around smiling. She definitely didn’t belong in our sitcom.

She came in cautiously, perhaps afraid that something would leap out at her. When she spotted Bernie on his perch, her narrow top lip curled into a sneer that had obviously seen a lot of use.

“Why are you hiding in the shadows?” Her voice sounded tight, as if it wanted to be screechy but she was reigning it in.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t see me,” Bernie said. “Did you leave your broomstick outside?”

“Is that where you left your manners?” She jacked the sneer up a notch.

I looked from the woman to Bernie and back, afraid this encounter would quickly escalate to bitch-slapping.

“What are you doing here, Marjorie, apart from frightening the customers?”

“I’m here on Chamber business,” she said haughtily.

Bernie looked in my direction. “She’s the Chambermaid.”

“I am the Chair of the Hawksley and District Chamber of Trade,” she said. The look she gave me reminded me of my old headmistress. She’d looked at me like that after the incident with the shaving foam and the torn knickers.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said, dropping into a curtsey. Bernie gave me an approving wink.

Chairman Marj looked away, deciding I was best ignored. The cold smile she bestowed on Bernie made me think of a shark greeting its prey.

“I’ve just come from a meeting of the Chamber,” she said.

“I hope you washed your hands,” Bernie said.

“There have been complaints about your shop,” she said. “It’s purple.”

“I know that.”

The outside of the shop was freshly painted in royal purple. The colour of chocolate bar wrappers. I liked it.

“Purple is not an approved colour,” she said, “and it isn’t in keeping with the heritage of the area.”

Most of the high street shops were built from concrete in the 1970s. I don’t think English Heritage will be rushing to protect them anytime soon.

Bernie was staring at Marjorie whatever-her-name-was as if he was trying to use psychic power to make her head explode.

“You’ll have to repaint it,” she said. “Black is a perfectly good colour.”

Bernie’s Bazaar had been black before it was painted.

“No,” Bernie said.

“This isn’t a request, it’s an instruction.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Bernie said. “You come waltzing in here with your nose in the air, dressed like a drag queen Margaret Thatcher… just who do you think you are?”

“I am the Chair of the Chamber of Trade and this…” She slapped a piece of paper down on the counter. “…is your written warning. You have fourteen days to comply.”

“Or else what?”

“We will levy a fine and send a petition to your landlord to have you evicted. I’m already collecting signatures.”

“You’re a nasty piece of work, Marjie Cabbage.”

“It’s Cribbage-Hobbes,” she snapped. “Mrs. Cribbage-Hobbes.”

“That poor man,” Bernie said. “What did Eddie Hobbes ever do to deserve you?”

“I’ll have you know that Edmund and I are very happily married.”

Bernie looked over at me. “I’d like to ask Eddie’s opinion, but she never lets him out. We think she keeps him locked in the cellar.”

Made uncomfortable by the tension in the air, the couple in the matching cagoules were edging towards the door.

“You are a ridiculous little man, Bernard Butterworth,” Marjie told him.

“And you are a word that rhymes with witch,” Bernie said. “If you had a heart I’d shove a stake through it.”

“Fourteen days!” Marjie screeched, jabbing a finger at him.

“Get out of my shop, you harridan. And leave the door open so we can get rid of the smell of that cheap perfume. You reek like a tart’s armpit.”

Marjorie Cabbage-Harridan made a strangulated sound, turned on her heel, and stomped out. She had thick ankles, I noticed. It’s difficult to stomp gracefully when you have thick ankles. Luckily, I’d inherited my mother’s slender ones.

The couple in the blue cagoules were standing by the door with their mouths open.

“Good day to you as well,” Bernie said grumpily.

The couple hurried out.

“B.O. and Estee Lauder,” Bernie muttered, wafting his arms through the air. “Those Women’s Institute types all smell the same.”

I couldn’t imagine Marjorie making jam and singing ‘Jerusalem’ off-key.

“How long have you two been lovers?” I asked, my expression mock-innocent.

Bernie glared at me. And then he laughed out loud. The mood was broken, and we both dipped into the windmill biscuit barrel. I was curious about the bad blood between Bernie and Marjorie. There was obviously some history there. I decided now was not the time to ask him about it. He’d tell me when he was ready.

“I think that bloke in the anorak shoplifted a Dalek,” I said. 

Chapter 2

It all started with an innocent bit of malicious gossip over lunch at The Blue Plate. Gayle Rainsby had been my best friend at school and since I’d come back, we tried to meet up at least once a fortnight for a burger and a chat.

The Blue Plate takes its name and its menu from an American diner and even has a blue neon sign in the window. But the interior décor is very much influenced by willow pattern china plates. The wallpaper has a soft oriental design and there are lots of planters filled with lush green bamboo plants.

Gayle and I had taken our usual booth at the back. Maybe this choice was a throwback to when we used to sit at the back of the class and cause mischief. Gayle had been in on the shaving foam incident, but she didn’t rip her knickers. Even then, my butt stuck out further than hers. I miss those days. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have gotten into a lot more trouble. Life is too short to conform to expectations.

Compared to me, Gayle looks thin. I’m sure that’s not the only reason she still hangs around with me. Fairly sure. She is voluptuous in the same way Marilyn Monroe was. And like Marilyn, she’s even more attractive if you catch her before she’s done her makeup. She has perfectly smooth pale skin, full lips, and soft hazel eyes that sometimes look green. Her natural hair colour is a glossy light brown, but you’ll never see that. She has it bleached and coloured honey blonde. And her skin is airbrushed to the colour of a glazed ham. I prefer her in the ‘before’ picture is what I’m saying. But what do I know? Gayle has tons of followers online where she talks about cosmetics and dressing to kill on a Friday night. It’s a different world to mine. Gayle runs a boutique in Hawksley where you can get your hair done, a fake tan, and fake nails, all under one roof.

The young man who took our order was new and looked uncomfortable in the white shirt with the green apron over it. He was old enough to have left school but wasn’t quite out of the acne and greasy hair phase.

“Do you want diet cola?” he asked me. He withered under my gaze.

“Do I look like I count calories?”

“Er…”

What could the poor blushing fool say to that? I shouldn’t be so cruel, but it hacks me off when people assume that I must be on a diet. They’re making a judgment, aren’t they? You look like you should be on a diet. I don’t want to lose weight. I’m perfectly happy with my body. I have cleavage to die for. I got my breasts early and they came super-sized when other girls were still stuffing their bras with Kleenex. That was when boys first started to notice me, and I liked the attention.

I swim and in good weather, I ride my bicycle. My blood pressure is at the upper end of normal and so is my cholesterol. But I’ve outlived two of my classmates who didn’t make it to thirty. I’m a voluptuous woman trapped in a world where the supermodel stick insect is worshipped as perfection. That is my fate and I’ll live with it. I’m not going to wear black because it is a ‘slimming colour,’ whatever the heck that means. It probably means that if you’re fat, you’re only supposed to come out at night. Or you’re meant to stand in the shadows and hope no one will notice how big you are. I don’t want to stand in the shadows. I want to be big and loud and wear vibrant flower print dresses or vintage frocks. And I want to scare the heck out of anyone who thinks I shouldn’t.

The waiter scurried away, his ears burning.

Gayle grinned at me but didn’t say anything. She leaned forward and I knew that meant she had gossip to share. To be fair, Gayle always had gossip to share. People who work in a salon always get the best gossip. “Guess who was seen out the other night with a man who wasn’t her husband,” she said, leaning close and almost whispering.

“Hannah Paignton,” I guessed. Except it wasn’t really a guess.

“You heard already?” Gayle pouted. She always liked to be first with the gossip about who had done what with whom.

“No,” I said. “But Hannah is the only person we know who’s still happily married.”

“There’s Stephie and Grant.”

“I said happily.”

Almost all of our contemporaries were divorced, separated, or cheating on their partner. Except for Stephie and Grant who had this old-fashioned belief in the ‘til death us do part thing and thought making each other miserable was preferable to having their freedom and enjoying life.

I was distracted for a moment by a tall, thin young man who sat a few tables away. He had long blond hair and cheekbones to die for. He kept glancing in my direction and then when I caught him looking at me, he smiled broadly. Lovely dimples. Either he was genuinely interested in me, or he was one of those gay blokes who likes larger women. Or he’d forgotten his glasses and thought I was that comedian off the telly.

“What evidence do we have of Hannah’s infidelity?” I asked.

“She was seen having dinner with another man.”

“Seen by whom?”

“Jackie Sampson.”

Jackie was a reliable witness, so there was a good chance that the alleged dinner date had actually taken place as reported.

“Who was she with?” I asked.

“Jackie?” Gayle frowned. Sometimes I wonder if the peroxide might have penetrated her skull.

“No, Hannah.” I swallowed the last of my cheeseburger and looked down at the large slice of chocolate fudge cake that was my treat for the day. At least this part of the day. I would demonstrate my willpower by not attacking it until I’d had at least two more sips of my too-hot coffee. Or until Gayle had unburdened herself of the details she was bursting to reveal, whichever came first.

“Jackie didn’t recognise the gentleman in question,” Gayle said.

“So it could have been anyone? A work colleague? Cousin? Her dentist?”

“It might have been a perfectly innocent dinner,” Gayle said. “I mean, everyone has candle-lit dinners with their cousin the dentist, don’t they? And it’s perfectly natural that they’d hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes until their soup went cold. And the fact that they’d met up in such an out-of-the-way place is in no way an indication that they were trying to keep their liaison a secret…”

Gayle didn’t used to be that sarcastic. I think she got it from me.

“How out-of-the-way?” I asked.

“If they had gone any further north they’d have been in Yorkshire.”

“And Jackie actually saw them. What was she doing there?”

“Hannah? Having dinner with a strange man. That’s what I’m telling you.”

Gayle’s little grey cells must have been bleached white – damaged like those coral reefs near Australia.

“Jackie! What was Jackie doing in the frozen north such that she was there to witness the alleged crime?”

“Her in-laws live in Ravenshead. Well, Blidworth really, but they like to pretend they live in the posh bit.”

“What was this mystery man like?” I asked. Having no man of my own, mysterious or otherwise, I was both curious and jealous. It seemed unfair that Hannah Paignton should have two – even if one of them was her dippy husband, Carl.

“Gorgeous,” Gayle said, her eyes glazing a little as she imagined the scene. “Wavy black hair, dark skin, and lovely white teeth. What’s the name of that cute Indian guy in the movies?”

“Tonto?”

Gayle gave me that look that mothers often give their daughters. “No, the Bollywood guy that does all the fighting and dancing.”

That didn’t narrow it down enough for me to come up with a name. All Bollywood heroes dance, don’t they?

Gayle waved her hand dismissively, her stick-on French talons slicing through the air. I could never wear those, I’d take someone’s eye out. Probably my own.

It sounded like Hannah had found herself a hot new guy.

“Good for her,” I said.

“Is that it?” Gayle was frowning again.

“Is what it?”

“Is that all you’re going to say? Good for her. Aren’t you in the least bit curious about the stud that Hannah is leaving her husband for?”

“We don’t know that she’s leaving Carl for this mystery man?”

“Wouldn’t you leave Carl for a sexy Indian guy?”

“I’d leave Carl for a pale, hairy fat guy, but I’m not married to him.” 

This was unfair to Carl. Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just lacking in the personality department.

“You don’t think Hannah is having a steamy love affair, do you?” Gayle sounded disappointed, perhaps in Hannah but probably in me.

“She might be having an affair with this guy,” I said. “And Hannah deserves to be happy. But I don’t think we have enough evidence to prove that she’s going to leave Carl in the immediate future.”

Gayle thought about this. “We need more evidence,” she decided. “And we have to find out the identity of her Bollywood hero.”

“Gayle, it’s none of our business,” I said. “Do you really think we should go around snooping into her private life like a couple of sleazy private detectives?”

“Absolutely!” Gayle was nodding enthusiastically. I could almost hear the dead coral rattling in her skull.

A beautiful thin black guy with a shaved head had just sat down at my blond admirer’s table. From their body language, I knew the two men were lovers. The blond one said something and smiled. The black guy casually glanced my way and when he looked back, he shook his head. Either that meant he wasn’t up for a threesome, or he could see that I wasn’t the woman off the television. Looking at them, I had that familiar mix of emotions you get whenever you see someone in real life who is fashion model beautiful – desire and a deep, deep hatred. They were as distant and unattainable as the images in a magazine. As long as you accepted them as something nice to look at – like an orchid or a Matisse – then you could control the urge to strangle them. Maybe it’s just me?

In my teens, I’d gone out with a beautiful skinny blond guy who claimed his name was Marcel. He also claimed he was bisexual. I should have known that the relationship was doomed from the start, but I was young and naïve. And at least I can say I once slept with a guy who looked like a fashion model. Just once.

I looked down and attacked the chocolate fudge cake.

*   

I walked home carrying a white cake box from The Blue Plate. It had been in the fridge at work all afternoon and I had resisted the temptation to open it. Only because I was stuffed from lunch. I turned into Lilac Grove and felt my shoulders relax. It was only a few hundred yards from the bustle of the high street, but it was empty and tranquil.

On either side were red brick Victorian ‘villas’ with bay windows and tiny front gardens separated from the pavement by brick walls. All of the homes were well-maintained, many with wisteria or clematis growing around the doors. Some had window boxes filled with red and pink geraniums. Between each pair of houses was a narrow entryway so the wheelie bins could be brought out to the curb on a Thursday. It wasn’t Thursday.

Number thirty-eight was a bigger house and had its own driveway and a privet hedge. It had stood empty for some time but was now being ‘modernised.’ The interior had been stripped out and all the window frames were gone. It made me sad to see the old staircase and other period features piled in a battered skip on the drive. There was scaffolding across the front of the house and a vinyl banner that advertised Hulbard Construction. Hulbard’s was involved in a lot of building projects around town, including a new development of ‘affordable’ homes down by the railway. I would have to get four more jobs to be able to afford one.

A movement up on the scaffold caught my eye. It was one of the builders, wearing a yellow hard hat, dirty jeans and scuffed boots. He’d cast off his t-shirt and his pale skin was shiny with sweat. I watched the way his muscles moved and felt something inside that I hadn’t felt in a while. Plain old lust. The guy half turned and when he saw me, he waved a gloved hand. It was Hannah’s husband, Carl. I waved back, hoping he couldn’t read the guilt on my face. Guilt that I’d been ogling him and guilt that I’d heard a rumour about his wife being unfaithful to him.

Carl had been a year above Gayle and me at school. He was blue-eyed and blond, his curly hair always looking in need of a barber. He had been attractive in a beefy sort of way – and he still was. But he was always the last to get a joke and that had brought him a lot of teasing. The other guys would talk him into doing all kinds of stupid things and he probably still had the scars to prove it. It was at school that we started calling him ‘Dippy Carl.’ He had a great smile and would flirt in an innocent sort of way that a lot of girls found charming. Carl had never been short of a date, but no one regarded him as a long-term prospect. We’d all been surprised when Hannah announced that she was marrying him.

I quickly crossed the road, not bothering to look both ways. There was no through traffic. One end of Lilac Grove was blocked by black cast iron bollards and a couple of big wooden planters filled with more geraniums. In the past, people had used the road as a rat run, but it had been blocked off by the council after a head-on collision between a couple of young idiots playing chicken in stolen cars. This was long before I moved back to Hawksley. My landlady heard the bang and called 999. The teenagers both survived with minor injuries, which is more than could be said for the cars.

Number twenty-seven was owned by Mrs. Flora Linsdale. She was widowed almost twenty years ago and had her house converted into self-contained flats so she could rent out parts of it. She occupied the ground floor, a young couple who I didn’t see much of had the middle, and I was in a little attic apartment at the top.

Flora leaves her inside door open during the day so she can listen for us coming and going.

“Is that you, Millie?” her voice called as I closed the front door. She knew it was me – her chair in the front room faces the window so she can keep an eye on everything in the street.

“Hello, Flora,” I said, stepping into what must once have been the ‘parlour.’

Flora Linsdale had celebrated her seventieth birthday sometime before I first met her, but I’m not sure how many years before. She was dressed, as usual, in a baggy t-shirt, black Lycra pedal-pushers and patent leather Doc Marten boots. Her hair was currently candy-floss pink, surrounding her head like a frizzy halo. She’d worn horn-rimmed glasses until she had her cataracts done, now she wears round mirror-shades when it’s sunny outside. She’s got an old Sherlock Holmes pipe and smokes what she insists is ‘herbal tobacco’ – a habit she picked up from the late Mr. Linsdale. He had also taught her to forage for mushrooms. I never accept mushroom soup from her. My reality is weird enough. I’m not sure if it’s the pipe, the mushrooms, or the whisky that gives her the raspy voice. When she laughs, she sounds a lot like Popeye.

“Do I spy a cake box?” she asked.

“Vanilla cheesecake for you,” I said, smiling, “and carrot cake for me.”

“You shouldn’t have!” She pretended to be surprised, but I always brought her cake when I went to The Blue Plate, and she already had a little white plate and a fork on the coffee table. Using the fork, she lifted the jumbo-sized slice of cheesecake out onto the plate, causing much less damage than I would have if I’d tried.

“When I saw you lingering across the road, I thought you had an appetite for something else,” she teased.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “Carl is an old school friend.”

“Married?”

“Yes.”

“Pity.” She smiled kindly. “At some point, you have to get back into the saddle and ride the horse that threw you.”

That was a mental image I didn’t need. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”

“Who said anything about a boyfriend? I’m talking about sex. A woman has needs. And they don’t go away when you get older, that’s a myth.”

Flora had been seeing a man called Phil from her Pilates class, but I don’t think he was living up to expectations. “I need a man who can keep up with me,” she said. She didn’t mean a man who could walk fast. She’d asked me about signing up to a dating website – was there one where women could meet younger men? I didn’t want to ask how much younger. And I certainly didn’t want to go looking at granny-chaser websites. I’d managed to distract her with a question about vitamin supplements. Flora is a big believer in the miraculous properties of ginkgo biloba, whatever the heck that is. It sounds like Sylvester Stallone’s hobbit name.

“Men are overrated,” I said.

“Yes, dear, but they have their uses.”

I didn’t want to admit that lately, I’d been thinking about some of those uses. Thinking about them a lot. I glanced towards the window, but Carl was no longer on the scaffolding. I sighed.

“I bought some ham if you fancy a sandwich?” Flora said.

“I had a big lunch. I’m just going to have coffee and cake.” I moved towards the open door.

“Come down later and we’ll watch that singing show,” she said.

It wasn’t just dating that Flora kept encouraging me to try again. Since she’d found out about my singing, she kept dropping hints about the monthly open mic night at The Pheasant Inn. She even had a band lined up for me – three old guys from the bowls club. Murray played bass, Donal was a pianist, and Charlie was on drums. She’d mentioned it so often that I could remember their names. They’d been a quartet, but Nan Clarke was in a home now and couldn’t remember the words. It makes you wonder about your own future, doesn’t it? As far as the near future was concerned, I didn’t need a man and I didn’t want to sing in front of an audience. As long as I had Colombian coffee and carrot cake, I was happy. Probably.

“I’ll see you back down here at seven-thirty,” Flora called as I started up the stairs.

“You will.” 

Just us two old ladies having a night in front of the television.