was gearing up for
another afternoon of mind-numbing boredom around the “women’s” table, (the men
sat at their own, discussing football, politics and the like), when Stacey took
me to one side.
‘You look as fed up as I feel,’ she whispered.
Sensing a kindred spirit, I almost shouted hurrah!
‘Can you believe these women?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, m’dear,’ she said, in a comically plummy accent, ‘the pursuit of
perfection in these fine ladies is legendary in these here parts.’
I almost managed to stifle a giggle, but failed, causing a few turned
heads from the women in question.
‘Oops!’ said Stacey, as she turned to the artfully laden table and
grabbed a bottle of Merlot, which she poured in large measure into two
obviously expensive crystal glasses.
‘I mean this says it all, don’t you think?’ she whispered, while holding
up the glasses for inspection. ‘Who the hell uses crystal for a barbecue?’
‘Shush! They’ll hear you.’ I laughed.
Then, as if on cue, Marion, our host for the afternoon, called out.
‘Are you two all right over there? Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Just the hell out of here,’ Stacey mumbled, as we bowed to the
inevitable and made our way over the weed-less lawn to the quartet already
seated at the table.
I liked Stacey and over the summer, we often spent time together. Although
she had the look of a hard-edged city type, Stacey was anything but. She was –
as most of the women in our small cul-de-sac were – a stay-at-home wife. She
had one son Oliver, away at school and a cleaner three times a week.
‘Darling, I married Dillon to avoid the necessity of working,’ she
admitted shamelessly one morning over coffee. ‘Why spend hours of one’s life
toiling away, when one can get a man to do it for you?’
‘Well, you have a point,’ I ventured.
‘Don’t get me wrong – I do my bit. Dillon gets my undivided attention
six weeks of the year when we’re on holiday and a shag once a week – he’s
happy. The rest of the time I amuse myself.’
‘You mean you…?’
‘God, yes, darling, I’m a veritable slut.’ I nearly choked on my
coffee. Stacey left her seat at the table and started rummaging in a cupboard
of her ultra-modern kitchen, eventually producing a packet of Bendick’s
chocolate-covered biscuits and a plate to put them on.
‘So, how’s your sex life with Eddie-boy?’ she asked, while nibbling on a
biscuit.
Stacey’s candid way of speaking was contagious and I found myself willing
to be as open as she.
‘His is prolific by all accounts, mine’s virtually non-existent.’
‘Ah… yes, he struck me as having a roving eye. You don’t look as if it
bothers you though?’ Stacey licked melted chocolate from her fingers, flicked
back her well-cut, blonde hair, and fixed me with a look that showed interest
without sympathy. With a thought for my hips, I ignored the proffered biscuits
and answered her.
‘I think I’m past caring, to be honest,’ I admitted. ‘I have my home and
the children and Eddie is generous, so…’
‘Hmm… you’re wise. So many people think infidelity is black and white,
but to me it’s not.’
Noticing my frown, she continued.
‘OK, look at it this way,’ she said, warming to the subject. ‘Your Eddie
likes to play the field… and no matter what, if he’s that way inclined you
won’t stop him, so why punish yourself for his misdeeds?’
‘But I’m not.’
‘No, you’re not, but so many women do. Think about it… they force the
issue, demand a divorce and for what? A smaller house, less money and another
search for Mr Right.’ I had to admit she was probably right.
‘No – far better to stay put, spend their money and amuse yourself,’ she
said, with a flourish of conviction.
‘Been there, done that,’ I admitted.
‘No!’ Stacey’s expertly kept eyebrows shot out of sight under her fringe,
‘I wouldn’t have thought
another afternoon of mind-numbing boredom around the “women’s” table, (the men
sat at their own, discussing football, politics and the like), when Stacey took
me to one side.
‘You look as fed up as I feel,’ she whispered.
Sensing a kindred spirit, I almost shouted hurrah!
‘Can you believe these women?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, m’dear,’ she said, in a comically plummy accent, ‘the pursuit of
perfection in these fine ladies is legendary in these here parts.’
I almost managed to stifle a giggle, but failed, causing a few turned
heads from the women in question.
‘Oops!’ said Stacey, as she turned to the artfully laden table and
grabbed a bottle of Merlot, which she poured in large measure into two
obviously expensive crystal glasses.
‘I mean this says it all, don’t you think?’ she whispered, while holding
up the glasses for inspection. ‘Who the hell uses crystal for a barbecue?’
‘Shush! They’ll hear you.’ I laughed.
Then, as if on cue, Marion, our host for the afternoon, called out.
‘Are you two all right over there? Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Just the hell out of here,’ Stacey mumbled, as we bowed to the
inevitable and made our way over the weed-less lawn to the quartet already
seated at the table.
I liked Stacey and over the summer, we often spent time together. Although
she had the look of a hard-edged city type, Stacey was anything but. She was –
as most of the women in our small cul-de-sac were – a stay-at-home wife. She
had one son Oliver, away at school and a cleaner three times a week.
‘Darling, I married Dillon to avoid the necessity of working,’ she
admitted shamelessly one morning over coffee. ‘Why spend hours of one’s life
toiling away, when one can get a man to do it for you?’
‘Well, you have a point,’ I ventured.
‘Don’t get me wrong – I do my bit. Dillon gets my undivided attention
six weeks of the year when we’re on holiday and a shag once a week – he’s
happy. The rest of the time I amuse myself.’
‘You mean you…?’
‘God, yes, darling, I’m a veritable slut.’ I nearly choked on my
coffee. Stacey left her seat at the table and started rummaging in a cupboard
of her ultra-modern kitchen, eventually producing a packet of Bendick’s
chocolate-covered biscuits and a plate to put them on.
‘So, how’s your sex life with Eddie-boy?’ she asked, while nibbling on a
biscuit.
Stacey’s candid way of speaking was contagious and I found myself willing
to be as open as she.
‘His is prolific by all accounts, mine’s virtually non-existent.’
‘Ah… yes, he struck me as having a roving eye. You don’t look as if it
bothers you though?’ Stacey licked melted chocolate from her fingers, flicked
back her well-cut, blonde hair, and fixed me with a look that showed interest
without sympathy. With a thought for my hips, I ignored the proffered biscuits
and answered her.
‘I think I’m past caring, to be honest,’ I admitted. ‘I have my home and
the children and Eddie is generous, so…’
‘Hmm… you’re wise. So many people think infidelity is black and white,
but to me it’s not.’
Noticing my frown, she continued.
‘OK, look at it this way,’ she said, warming to the subject. ‘Your Eddie
likes to play the field… and no matter what, if he’s that way inclined you
won’t stop him, so why punish yourself for his misdeeds?’
‘But I’m not.’
‘No, you’re not, but so many women do. Think about it… they force the
issue, demand a divorce and for what? A smaller house, less money and another
search for Mr Right.’ I had to admit she was probably right.
‘No – far better to stay put, spend their money and amuse yourself,’ she
said, with a flourish of conviction.
‘Been there, done that,’ I admitted.
‘No!’ Stacey’s expertly kept eyebrows shot out of sight under her fringe,
‘I wouldn’t have thought
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