I wasn’t staying. I knew I had to go home for a while. Back to Callum and Michael and my gran and the girls. Back to Maw and Paw Walton. Just home. But I knew that if I told Joe, he would insist on coming with me and that wasn’t the answer. I wanted to go alone, to see my mates and my family. To think about us and what we were doing. He would never understand. After all, hadn’t we vowed never to spend a night apart?
I took the coward’s way out. I took off my engagement ring and placed it on top of my signature.
Dear Joe,
the note read,
I’m so sorry. I need to go home for a while to do some thinking. I’ll be in touch soon. Love you – always,
Cooper x.
PS I’m leaving the ring, so you know I’ll be back.
I rushed to Schiphol Airport and caught the 7 a.m. flight to Glasgow.
I never saw Joe Cain again.
5
High – The Lighthouse Family
I arrive at Paco’s on Chiswick High Road fifteen minutes late due to a wardrobe crisis – pink pedal pushers are NOT for a woman of my curvatures and complexion – and the Number 57 bus driver refusing to go over twenty miles an hour. Chiswick is the most convenient meeting place, given that Kate lives around the corner, I’m only a few miles away, Jess can hop on a direct train from Westminster and Carol is dating a minted bloke who provides a car and driver to take her wherever she wants to go. As I charge into the packed restaurant, it crosses my mind again that I need to ask the others if they know what happened to Sarah, but I get sidetracked by their cheers.
Kate and Jess have obviously filled Carol in on my day’s deliberations, because in front of them all are glasses full of red liquid – the unmistakable murky hues of the Invaded Vagina. I’ve never asked what’s in it and I’m pretty sure now isn’t the time to find out.
‘Cooper,’ Jess greets me, her Glaswegian accent softened by an overtone of posh London. ‘We were just about to call in a search party.’
There are kisses and hugs all round, before I eventually park myself, desperate to fill them in on my latest episode.
Jess, dressed in a classic navy power suit, takes charge as usual. As a political researcher and (secret) girlfriend of Basil Asquith, MP, she’s used to participating in important meetings and keeping things in order.
‘Right then, who’s got anything major to report this week?’ she asks, her red, chin-length bob not even budging as she scans her audience.
Three hands shoot up, including mine, one almost decapitating a passing waiter. Bloody hell, THREE major news items. Normally we’re lucky if there’s one and we just fill the rest of the time with essential tasks like swapping salacious celebrity gossip. Most of that comes from Carol and Jess, with occasional top-ups from Kate. I wouldn’t come into contact with a celebrity unless I tripped over one when I was putting my bins out. I definitely have the least glamorous life in my circle.
‘Marks out of ten for importance, juiciness and trauma value?’ Jess requests.
‘Four,’ Carol replies, through a perfect, rose pink pout. It would be easy to hate her. She hasn’t gained a pound since we were fourteen, and she still has Cindy Crawford’s easy elegance and killer cheekbones. Even more irritating, she can throw on any old thing and achieve the kind of look that would take me a week and a half to put together.
‘Nine,’ adds Kate.
‘Ten,’ I smile gleefully.
There’s a round of surprised faces. We haven’t had a ten since Jess caught her boyfriend in bed with his allegedly erstwhile wife and proceeded to assault him with a table lamp, causing him to flee his home with only his ministerial red box covering his dignity. It is a complicated relationship. Jess definitely isn’t the kind of woman who would entertain an affair, but Basil’s marriage has been over for years, and he and his wife keep up the façade for the sake of his political career and her social standing. Personally, I think Jess should run a mile from the pair of them, but she loves him, so I try not to judge.
We decide to spill in reverse order, leaving the biggest until last. I can barely contain myself so I sip my cocktail to keep my gob otherwise occupied.
Carol starts with a sigh. ‘Clive wants to take me to Antigua for two weeks.’ Clive is Carol’s latest boyfriend. Private-school educated, great connections, family money and he’s invested well in all sorts of technology that I don’t understand, so two weeks in a luxury resort wouldn’t even make a dent in his petty cash.
I almost splurt my drink across the table. ‘And that’s a problem?’
‘Two weeks! Fourteen whole days and nights of Clive. I mean, he’s very nice and all that, but normally I don’t even hang around long enough to brush my teeth in the mornings. It’s usually meet, expensive dinner somewhere fabulous, his place, orgasm, and then I’m out of there.’
And she’s not kidding. Carol treats her boyfriends like a session at the gym – a bit of a chore, a few grunts and groans, but the rewards are worth it.
We deliberate her dilemma over our starters. It would be easy to look at Carol’s gorgeous, luxury life and think she has it all. Or that she’s aloof and shallow. Actually, she is pretty shallow, but that’s not a surprise in her world. Underneath, though, she’s just the working-class girl from Glasgow, who grew up on a council estate with a mum who worked three jobs to support her family, and who knows that she has a time limit to capitalise on her exquisite appearance. For all her stunning looks, rich boyfriends, flash cars and first-class flights, she’s just like the rest of us –flawed, complicated and still figuring life out. We decide that she should go. After all, how bad could it be? As long as she takes the latest Jilly Cooper, an empty suitcase for shopping trips and calls us on Clive’s phone bill if boredom sets in, she’ll be fine.
We move on to Kate before Carol gets the brochures out and makes us all sick with jealousy.
To my surprise, Kate looks flushed. This is the woman who copes with two kids, a full-time job, a house and husband and all without breaking into a sweat. A minor earthquake couldn’t break Kate’s stride, so if she’s perturbed in any way, then I’ve got a feeling that it’s something huge. I’m not wrong.
‘My cocktail doesn’t have any alcohol in it because I’m, er, well, might be pregnant again.’
There is a stunned silence.
I look to the heavens for inspiration on what to say. Instead, all I see are wooden beams with what looks like dry rot.
I tentatively ask, ‘Is this good?’
She bursts into tears.
My God, Kate never cries. She’s the emotional equivalent of Gibraltar.
‘It’s just so unexpected,’ she blurts. ‘I thought my days of booties and nappy rash were over. But I am happy, honest. Just a bit shell-shocked. It’s really early, just a couple of weeks but my period hasn’t come and I recognise the signs. I’m hormonal. And emotional. One minute I’m over the moon and the next I want to punch everyone I meet. One of Hot N Spicy nearly got a roller brush surgically inserted today.’
‘What does Bruce think about it?’ Carol probes, Antigua now firmly shoved to the back of her mind.
‘Oh, you know Bruce, he’s delighted. He’s already designing an extension and a hydraulic cot. Poor bloody baby will spend half its life with motion sickness.’
We all laugh, including Kate.
She dries her eyes and raises her glass. ‘Here’s to maternity bras and piles.’
We all join in the toast before descending on her with congratulatory cuddles and kisses, much to the