never allow him to have one ever again. She said he was old and clapped out and his arteries were mink-lined.
But this healthy low-fat diet she had him on was killing him.
THE END
What'cha think? Could it really be like that? Wouldn't it be great? I'd give anything for him to come home.
It was time for my visit to Johnny the Scrip. He was in conversation with a woman who was buying something for a chesty cough.
'Here's Gemma, she'll know.'
'Know what?'
'How much money should you bring with you for a weekend in Paris?'
'Plenty,' I said. 'Tons.'
'He thinks four hundred,' Mrs Chesty Cough nodded at Johnny.
'Oh, at least . They've lovely shoes in Paris. And jewellery. And clothes. And think of the meals out.' Dear God! 'I'd love to go to Paris.'
'So would I,' Johnny said.
Our eyes met. 'I'll take you,' he said. 'For a couple of weeks.'
'How about a month?' With that we both creased over with uncontrollable laughing.
Smiling, Chesty Cough watched us. But when Johnny and I looked up from our mirth, saw each other and doubled over again with renewed vigour, her smile wilted. 'What's so funny?'
'Nothing,' Johnny gasped. 'Nothing at all.' That was the whole point.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: Hit me, baby, one more time
Guess what? The Owen youth rang again. He said he was looking at his leg and felt that something was missing, which he then realized was the huge bruise I'd given him when I pushed him out of bed that time. He wondered if there was any chance of a repeat performance and he must have got me at a vulnerable time because I said yes. Details to be finalized. I don't know how I'm going to get it past Mam, but I'll think of something. And I plan to enjoy myself…
Love
Gemma
It was good that I was going out. The hours at home with Mam were having a detrimental effect on my grasp of reality. I couldn't stop speculating on everything going wrong for Dad and Colette, and then writing little essays about it. It was the only thing that gave me comfort. I constructed a vivid imaginary world where, amongst other things, Colette refused to do any work now that she was living with Dad, Dad gets into trouble with his higher-ups and gradually begins to come to his senses.
I so badly wanted Mam and Dad to get back together. It was horrible being from a broken home, even though I was thirty-two.
Instead of the film director-farmer fantasy, I spent my sleepless early mornings imagining scenarios plucked from various romances, where Mam and Dad ended up being thrown back together. I was very fond of the one where on some pretext - say, a mutual old friend's birthday - they have to go on a long journey together but the car breaks down and they end up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere and there's a big storm and the electricity fails and they hear a funny noise and have to sleep in the same bed for safety.
But my favourite was the one where Dad dropped in to Mam, ostensibly to collect his post. Her hair was done, her make-up was discreet and flattering and she was wearing a sarong and bathing suit. She looked great.
'Noel,' she said, with a warmth that confused him. 'How nice to see you. I was just about to have lunch. Would you like to join me?'
'Aah, depends. What are you having?'
'Toasted cheese and ham sandwiches and a bottle of wonderfully dry chardonnay.'
'Colette won't let me have cheese.'
'And Helmut thinks I'm a vegetarian,' she said dryly.
'That stymies that then.'
'Really?' A slow wicked grin spread across Mam's face. 'Let's be naughty. I won't tell if you won't.'
'Right, so.'
'As it's such a beautiful day let's take it out to the patio.'
They sat at the little table and the sun smiled down. Bees buzzed fatly in and out of the swaying magenta foxgloves. Mam wore Chanel sunglasses and her lipstick didn't come off when she ate her sandwich. Dad gazed at the lovely mature garden that had once been his pride and joy before he got lured away by thongs. 'I'd
But this healthy low-fat diet she had him on was killing him.
THE END
What'cha think? Could it really be like that? Wouldn't it be great? I'd give anything for him to come home.
It was time for my visit to Johnny the Scrip. He was in conversation with a woman who was buying something for a chesty cough.
'Here's Gemma, she'll know.'
'Know what?'
'How much money should you bring with you for a weekend in Paris?'
'Plenty,' I said. 'Tons.'
'He thinks four hundred,' Mrs Chesty Cough nodded at Johnny.
'Oh, at least . They've lovely shoes in Paris. And jewellery. And clothes. And think of the meals out.' Dear God! 'I'd love to go to Paris.'
'So would I,' Johnny said.
Our eyes met. 'I'll take you,' he said. 'For a couple of weeks.'
'How about a month?' With that we both creased over with uncontrollable laughing.
Smiling, Chesty Cough watched us. But when Johnny and I looked up from our mirth, saw each other and doubled over again with renewed vigour, her smile wilted. 'What's so funny?'
'Nothing,' Johnny gasped. 'Nothing at all.' That was the whole point.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: Hit me, baby, one more time
Guess what? The Owen youth rang again. He said he was looking at his leg and felt that something was missing, which he then realized was the huge bruise I'd given him when I pushed him out of bed that time. He wondered if there was any chance of a repeat performance and he must have got me at a vulnerable time because I said yes. Details to be finalized. I don't know how I'm going to get it past Mam, but I'll think of something. And I plan to enjoy myself…
Love
Gemma
It was good that I was going out. The hours at home with Mam were having a detrimental effect on my grasp of reality. I couldn't stop speculating on everything going wrong for Dad and Colette, and then writing little essays about it. It was the only thing that gave me comfort. I constructed a vivid imaginary world where, amongst other things, Colette refused to do any work now that she was living with Dad, Dad gets into trouble with his higher-ups and gradually begins to come to his senses.
I so badly wanted Mam and Dad to get back together. It was horrible being from a broken home, even though I was thirty-two.
Instead of the film director-farmer fantasy, I spent my sleepless early mornings imagining scenarios plucked from various romances, where Mam and Dad ended up being thrown back together. I was very fond of the one where on some pretext - say, a mutual old friend's birthday - they have to go on a long journey together but the car breaks down and they end up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere and there's a big storm and the electricity fails and they hear a funny noise and have to sleep in the same bed for safety.
But my favourite was the one where Dad dropped in to Mam, ostensibly to collect his post. Her hair was done, her make-up was discreet and flattering and she was wearing a sarong and bathing suit. She looked great.
'Noel,' she said, with a warmth that confused him. 'How nice to see you. I was just about to have lunch. Would you like to join me?'
'Aah, depends. What are you having?'
'Toasted cheese and ham sandwiches and a bottle of wonderfully dry chardonnay.'
'Colette won't let me have cheese.'
'And Helmut thinks I'm a vegetarian,' she said dryly.
'That stymies that then.'
'Really?' A slow wicked grin spread across Mam's face. 'Let's be naughty. I won't tell if you won't.'
'Right, so.'
'As it's such a beautiful day let's take it out to the patio.'
They sat at the little table and the sun smiled down. Bees buzzed fatly in and out of the swaying magenta foxgloves. Mam wore Chanel sunglasses and her lipstick didn't come off when she ate her sandwich. Dad gazed at the lovely mature garden that had once been his pride and joy before he got lured away by thongs. 'I'd
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