It was a relief when the twelve days of Christmas were over and Becca could take the decorations down. 'Come and help me,' she called up to Lily. 'I'm going to do the tree,' she tried again. 'Do come down.' No reply.
Becca waited. Last year Lily had been a cheery, happy child chattering about Christmas and school and the new hamster. Now the hamster was dead, no longer rattling round on its treadmill, unloved, unnoticed until it smelled enough for Becca to yell at Lily to clean it out. I'm like that flipping hamster, Becca thought, stuck on a treadmill of work and domesticity. I gave up Paul for this. She closed her eyes. No. I gave up Paul for Lily's sake.
She looked at the tree. It wouldn't undecorate itself. Hey ho, she'd have to do it. Becca began to take the decorations down, wistfully aware that her hopes for Christmas had been unrealistic, designed for some 1950s happy family, with scrubbed and brushed children wearing ankle socks and ribbons in their hair, Mummy looking slim and elegant in her pinny, and Daddy neat in stay-pressed trousers and a canary yellow golfing sweater. Instead she'd got Lily, who possessed the animation of a gothic slug and Martin... Martin would fit quite happily into the mould, she thought. She could see him as the good father, working hard, settling into cosy slippers and pipe on his return, wielding a hammer for a spot of DIY or washing the car on a Sunday and buffing it up with a special polishing cloth. Perhaps if he'd buffed up my bumpers with as much care and attention, I wouldn't have fallen for Paul.
She took down the oldest, most precious of the decorations, the one she remembered from her own childhood, a creamy white ball decorated with a filigree of sparkling gold and swirling patterns dancing across the surface. She cupped the bauble in her hand, feeling the weight, the fragility of the glass. This had always been the one she placed last, to make sure it wasn't eclipsed by the others. It was still beautiful, even though she no longer looked at it with a child's eyes. It was older than Lily, possibly older than Becca herself. She felt a twinge of pleasure, followed quickly by a twinge of guilt, that somehow she had ended up with the family Christmas decorations. But Joanna wasn't interested in traditions, she rationalised. She probably didn't remember the glass balls, and anyway, they wouldn't have survived the trip overseas.
She put the bauble back in its tissue-paper nest in the box marked 'Fragile' and went back to the tree. But as she did so, her skirt must have caught the edge of the cardboard box and the box toppled to the floor with a muffled crash. With her heart in her mouth, she bent over the box, fingers probing the white tissue for the damage. The creamy white ball was in several pieces, the inside of the eggshell-fine glass a glossy gold. She could see her reflection in the largest piece, a golden haze of unhappiness.
'You OK, Mum?' Lily had emerged from her torpor. 'I heard a crash.'
'I broke one of the balls,' Becca said, trying for a smile.
'Oh.' Lily prodded the box with one stripy foot, the gothic look alleviated with purple stripes. Her eyes were still red from weeping over Kevin's defection. 'D'you need a brush or something?'
'No, it's OK.' Becca got up, the pieces in her hand, her body aching with the effort. 'Silly of me to be upset. It's just...we always had this decoration on the tree at Gran and Grandpa's.'
'So it's really old.' Lily didn't sound impressed. 'Didn't they want it?'
'I think Gran felt she didn't have the room to store Christmas decorations,' Becca said, letting the broken pieces slide into the waste-paper basket.
Lily drifted off upstairs so Becca put the rest of the decorations away single-handed and then took down the lights. Despite her careful efforts, they became tangled with the branches, twisting and coiling into a knobbled mass of wires. I used to love Christmas, she thought as she began to untangle them. She looked out of the window at the flat grey sky and felt there was nothing in life to look forward to, just more days of working and caring and feeling tired all the time. Term was starting tomorrow, and the relentless round was about to begin again.
Becca suddenly shoved all the tangled lights into the decorations box. What the hell. She'd sort it out next Christmas.
- ooo -
'Do you love me?' Becca asked. It was Monday morning, the first day of the new term, and Martin was sitting on the edge of the bed, examining the soles of his feet.
'Mmm?' Martin picked at the ball of his left foot. There was something simian about the way he was hunched over. 'God, I've got a lot of hard skin. Did you get a new pumice?'
'I put it in the bathroom.' She pressed her lips together. Why couldn't Martin see that this wasn't a moment to worry about pumice?
'Thanks.' He got up and ambled across the room.
'I said, do you love me?'
Martin paused for a second on his amble across the room to the bathroom. 'Course.' He disappeared. A few minutes later, Becca could hear him rooting around the cupboard. 'Can't find it.'
'Look on the bottom shelf. Next to the shampoo.' I think I'm going mad, she thought. Completely mad. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She had given up Paul, and for what? Martin and his hard skin. Her own skin felt thin, like the membrane around a raw egg. It held the contents together, but only just. Easily pierced. I'm cracking up, she thought, and Martin doesn't even notice.
A cry of triumph from the bathroom. Martin stuck his head round the door. 'Found it,' he said, waving the pumice stone in his hand. His face was lit up, as if a new pumice stone was the summit of his desires. 'Thanks for getting it. Do you want me to wake Lily?'
'Do you love me?' Say yes, she willed him. Say yes, and take me in your arms. Say yes, you love me, adore me, worship me. Say yes, I am the woman of your dreams, the woman you love. She stared up into his eyes, willing him to make the right answer.
'Er, yes, of course I do,' he mumbled, looking embarrassed.
'Then why don't you say it any more?' Becca said.
Martin looked surprised. 'I do, don't I?'
'No, never.'
'That's a bit of an exaggeration,' he said.
'When was the last time?' she said.
Martin rubbed his face. 'I don't know, Becca. How am I supposed to remember?'
'You haven't for ages. I can't remember the last time. You never say it.'
'Just because I don't say it, doesn't mean I don't think it.'
'Then why don't you say it?'
Martin checked his watch. 'I can't go round saying I love you all the time. It wouldn't be...'
'What? What wouldn't it be?'
'I really ought to be getting on, otherwise I'll be late. We'll all be late.'
'Say it now. Tell me you love me.'
Martin shifted from one foot to the other. 'You can't make someone say these things, they've got to arise spontaneously, be part of the moment.'
'But what if the moment never comes? Do I assume you don't love me?'
'It's Monday morning,' Martin said, with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. 'I've got to go to work. You're my wife; of course I love you. Better?'
'Not really.' Becca picked at the duvet cover.
Martin rolled his eyes. 'I've said it - what more do you want?'
And that was the question. She didn't know. Or rather she did, chaotic dreams and emotions swirling around in a confused mass. Becca felt this was a turning point, that if Martin was to take her seriously, to put the rest of the world to one side for a minute and sit by her side and tell her that he loved her, all would be fine. I want romance, she thought. I can't live this humdrum, dreary life, day in, day out, without love. All Martin would have to do is make the teeniest, tiniest bit of effort. She looked at him with sad realisation. It wasn't going to happen. 'Can you make sure Lily's up?'
He did a thumbs-up, obviously relieved that they were on safer domestic ground. 'Will do.'
She slid into her weekday morning routine: shower, dress, breakfast. It was always hard to get back into the work routine after time off; it felt like climbing back up onto the treadmill, working so hard to gain any momentum. Martin peered out of the window, cereal bowl in hand. 'Looks like there's been a frost. I'll sort your car out if you like.'
'Thanks. Lily, if you don't eat up, we'll be late.' Becca slotted her cereal bowl into the dishwasher as Martin went outside with the car keys.
Lily poked her spoon at her cornflakes. 'I can't bear to eat cereal in the mornings, it makes me sick.'
Toast was rejected because there wasn't any peanut butter, and the raspberry jam that had been such a favourite all last year was now the vilest of poisons. Finally Lily volunteered that she fancied a poached egg. Becca knew that if Martin had overheard the conversation he'd be pointing out that Becca spoiled Lily. Good thing he wasn't here then. She glanced up at the clock. 'All right, I'll do you a poached egg, but you'll have to get ready as quickly as you can and then come back for it.'
Lily slouched off to finish getting her school uniform on, or so Becca hoped. She grabbed the egg poacher from the cupboard and put it on to heat. Martin came back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands and stamping his feet with cold. 'I've defrosted the car,' he said. 'And look what I found on your windscreen.' He handed something to her. A red rose, withered from the cold. Becca suddenly went as cold as the rose. 'Someone must have mistaken your car for the girls' in the flat across the road - one of them's got a black hatchback too, haven't they?'
Becca nodded. 'Was there any note with it?' Her voice sounded high pitched.
Martin shook his head. 'I must be off. See you this evening. Oh, while I remember, can you put up my sponsorship form at work? I've still got to raise at least another £250.' He kissed her forehead, and left.
Becca held the rose. It was soft and cold in her hand, tightly formed into a dense head of petals, dark red like dried blood. Her mobile phone pinged. A text message: 'I love you.'
The water for Lily's poached egg hissed and spluttered on the stove. Becca deleted the text, and tossed the rose into the rubbish bin.
- ooo -
Becca had never felt less like being at work as she put up Martin's marathon sponsorship form on the staffroom notice board.
'Is that for Martin?' Crystal said. 'I'll sponsor him.'
'Thanks, he'll appreciate that,' Becca said. She watched as Crystal filled in her name and address on the form.
'I've put on half a stone over Christmas. Perhaps I ought to take up running, like Martin.' Crystal paused, twisting the pen in her fingers.
'I suppose it's none of my business...'
You're right; it isn't, Becca thought gathering her books together, as she guessed what was coming from the concerned but also interested expression on Crystal's face. How she wished she hadn't said anything to her at the Pump Room.
'...but how are things?'
Becca toyed for a second with pretending she didn't know what 'things' Crystal meant, but that would have been a cop-out. It was her own fault for dumping her problems on Crystal. She looked around, thinking she might cry if she thought any more about Paul.
'Ah, the very ladies I wish to see!'
Becca had never been happier to see Bill. 'What can we do for you, Bill?' she said.
'I've arranged a special drama workshop for all students doing English or Drama on Thursday 15 February, so can you put that in your diaries please?'
Crystal exchanged glances with Becca. 'Do we need to prepare anything? What's it about?'
Bill grinned broadly and tapped his nose. 'That's for me to know, and you to find out. You don't have to do a thing, just come along and be crowd control.' He swirled away from them.
'One more thing to worry about,' Crystal said, sighing heavily.
'You don't have to worry about me and Martin,' Becca said. Martin of the pumice stone. 'I told...my friend I couldn't see him again. I gave him up.' And in a Pavlovian response to the idea, tears started to fill her eyes. Self-pity is the most unattractive character trait, she told herself as she rubbed the tears away.
'Becca, you've done the right thing. I'm really proud of you.' Crystal gave her a hug.
I don't care about doing the right thing, Becca thought. I wish I hadn't.
- ooo -
Strange how life carries on. The shell of Becca went about her daily business. Most of the time she thought she could manage, but sometimes she would find herself crying and have to hide in the staff loos at work. She pretended to have a heavy cold, as an excuse for perpetually clutching tissues.
'Why don't you take a day or two off work?' Martin said.
'I can't let everyone down,' she said. The demands of work were the only thing that was keeping her going.
'I'd have thought they'd be happy to give you a couple of days. You'd get better quicker, and they wouldn't get your germs. Anyone can see you're not yourself.'
No, she wasn't herself. The real Becca had died inside, distraught by leaving Paul. It had to be done, she thought. I had to do it. But then she hadn't known how hard it was going to be. She thought of Paul all the time.
Her mobile rang. His number. She held the phone in her hand, wanting to answer. Even seeing his name on the screen lightened her heart. It would be so easy to pick the phone up and speak to him, rekindle the relationship. And then it would start all over again, the lying, the deceit, the anxiety, the fear of being caught. Lily. Think of Lily. The phone rang on, shrill and insistent. I love you, she telepathically told Paul at the other end of the phone. But she didn't answer.
In the end Bill caught her coming out of the ladies on Monday morning, her eyes red, nose streaming and told her to take the next day off, so she did. But being at home without anything to do was worse than being at work. Becca sat in the kitchen and caught up with the Sunday newspapers. She desultorily turned the pages of the Sunday colour supplement, feeling unable to settle on any one article. There was far too much about the January sales, diets and detoxing, none of which was of interest to her. She felt she never wanted to buy anything ever again after the orgy of spending over Christmas, and let's face it, all diets came down to eat less, exercise more and the only detoxing she needed was how to flush Paul out of her heart, something no amount of carrot and wheatgrass would solve.
Becca flicked through the pages. 'Spice up your sex life! We tell you how!' screamed one of the headings. They'd chosen to illustrate the article with a long-legged model in various bits of flimsy underwear. If I looked like that, Becca thought, I wouldn't need to spice up my sex life, I'd be having it non-stop. She blew her nose. Still, perhaps she should buy something a bit less practical and more exciting to wear from time to time. 'Get your nipples pierced and drive him wild when you tell him in the supermarket!' the article suggested. Becca clutched her breasts to her at the thought of it. She didn't think pierced nipples were Martin's thing, and they definitely weren't hers.
An article on feng shui caught her eye and she read through it. It was quite clear, her happiness corner was occupied by the downstairs loo. Becca herself hardly ever used it, as it made up the last section of the utility room and was therefore subject to outside walls on two sides. Now she realised that every morning Martin took the newspaper and settled himself down to crap on her happiness.
Becca closed the magazine and slung it in the bin. I won't allow myself to think like this, she thought. I won't. I said goodbye to Paul, and that was the right thing to do. I can make it work with Martin. I will make it work. She clenched her fists with determination while her treacherous mind slid over to Paul. A ransom note had arrived in the post that morning: 'Help! My heart has been kidnapped. Rescue me.' She'd thrown it away, but the image of him cutting out letters from newspapers and sticking them on to the sheet lingered.
I need to move on, she thought, and make a new start. Out with the old, and in with the new. She could clear out that pile of drama school brochures for a start. Without looking inside, she tipped them into the bin. It had been a daft idea, a complete fantasy. There was no way she could afford to give up work and become an unemployed actor. But perhaps the drama school idea was a sign that she needed to move on. She'd been working at Hamilton House for too long, she'd got complacent and lazy. There had to be other things she could do.
She went to the computer and turned it on. While she was waiting for it to boot she tried to think of her options. She was on a yearly contract with Bill running from September, so if she handed in her term's notice at the end of the spring term she'd be paid for the summer holidays too. That gave her a couple of months to research alternatives, with the prospect of starting something new in September. But what?
For a moment she paused then typed into Google: 'New Beginnings'. A few seconds later a long listing came up. She scanned it. There didn't seem to be much of specific interest. Try again. She thought for a second. Then typed 'Reinventing yourself'. This time there were lots of entries on the theme of being the person you always wanted to be. She rolled up her sleeves, stretched her fingers out, and started to work her way through the entries.
- ooo -
That night Becca woke at two in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Martin's rhythmic breathing infuriated her as she huddled over on her side of the bed trying to wrap the duvet around her even more tightly. Through some strange dreamy thought association, the talk on flint-knapping came into her mind. It was like love being tested. If the love was flawed, the flint would shatter at the first few strikes and be discarded. If it were true, the blows created a thing of beauty as well as function. The only way of knowing if the love was true was to test it. But once you found your love, your perfect flint, and had created the axehead, it was there to be used. And in using, each blow started to chip away at the perfection. It was still functional, still usable, but the sheen started to go, the edges becoming ragged and dull instead of translucent and smooth. All those small blows of selfishness, the tiny strikes of inconsideration chipping away. At any moment it might shatter, or become so chipped away that it lost its function, its meaning. Or it could remain true, a useful tool. The thing with Paul was never real, she told herself. It was never tested.
The night air was cold. She snuggled up to Martin, and in his sleep he turned and cuddled her, holding her tight, his body was warm against hers. This is real, she thought. Martin is real. Finally she slept.
- ooo -
Four weeks later, Becca let herself into her parents' house, lugging a large bag full of food for Frank's fridge to get him through the weekend and the beginning of the following week, by which time June would be back home. It hadn't been exactly a struggle keeping Frank stocked with food, but it had been another thing to think about. Thank heavens June was coming back and could take over. She shied away from thinking of what was going to happen to Frank if June did leave.
'Dad? It's me,' she called, trying not to think of preparing meals for one for the next twenty years. There were voices coming from the kitchen. Slightly surprised she followed the sounds down the hall. Perhaps Frank had the radio on. 'I've brought you some supplies,' Becca said, then stopped.
Sitting at the kitchen table was her father, all spruced up and wearing a check shirt and paisley cravat, while opposite him was a grey-haired woman upholstered in a heavy, ribbed, navy cardigan and pearls from an oyster the size of the Old Man of Hoy gleaming round her neck. If she'd leaned forward just a little her bust would have formed one long continuous slope from neck to table.
'Ah Becca,' her father said, giving a start as if he'd been caught doing something naughty. 'I didn't know you were coming.'
'I've brought supplies,' Becca repeated, feeling stupid. Frank had obviously been entertaining, judging by the plates and wine glasses. So much for the visions of her father starving all alone.
The pearly woman patted her hair and gave a coy smile that didn't reach her eyes. 'Aren't you going to introduce us?'
'Ah yes. This is my daughter Rebecca, and this is Mrs Batey. From the golf club,' he added.
'We met at your parents' party this summer,' Mrs Batey said.
'Of course - how are you?' Becca replied, sticking to the safe shores of conventional politeness although she couldn't remember Mrs Batey. Had there been a Mr Batey? She glanced at Frank. He'd obviously made a huge effort - he hadn't looked this smart for years. She opened the fridge door ready to put in her food, but the fridge was nearly full. 'Why, Dad, you've hardly eaten any of the things I brought you last time. You've got to eat properly.'
'That's what I told him,' Mrs Batey chipped in. She simpered at Frank, creasing make-up that could have been used for the white cliffs of Dover. Her pale-pink lipstick had imprinted itself on to her teacup in a pucker of a kiss. So unlike June in every way. 'At our age you can't afford to skip meals.'
Becca could feel all the hairs on her neck bristle, even though Mrs Batey was merely echoing what Becca had just said. I don't want you to agree with me, she glowered, aware that she'd slipped into sulky teenager mode. What was it about her parents that brought out her most unattractive side? Becca tried to re-establish the nicer, more adult bit of her. She started to rearrange the contents of the fridge so she could squeeze her carefully wrapped dishes in. It had become as complicated a case of manoeuvring as a Rubik's Cube. He really had hardly eaten anything at all.
Frank looked sheepish. 'Mrs Batey has been kind enough to make me a few meals.'
Becca looked at Mrs Batey again, who looked back in a slightly defiant way. Becca looked to Frank, then back to Mrs Batey. A horrible idea began to form in her mind. Surely not...
'That's really kind of you, looking after Dad until Mum comes back from holiday,' Becca said, smiling at Mrs Batey. 'She'll be back on Monday, as I expect you know.'
Frank took a sharp intake of breath as if to say something, but didn't.
'It sounds as if she's having a wonderful time,' Mrs Batey said, chattily. 'I've never fancied going myself, but I hear it's beautiful. Lovely scenery. Not that you can beat Scotland for scenery in my opinion.'
'Don't know why anyone wants to go abroad. We've got everything we need here, in this country. Better food too,' Frank said.
'There's nothing like a good old-fashioned British roast,' Mrs Batey said and Frank nodded. The sight of them nodding in complete agreement made Becca feel panicky.
'That reminds me, Dad, would you like to come over to our house for lunch tomorrow?' He'd been over every Sunday since June left, apart from the last weekend when he'd been doing something else.
'Thank you, Becca dear, but I have a prior engagement.' He looked across at Mrs Batey who bridled. Becca felt sick. This wasn't happening. June had only gone away for a little while, and she'd be back within seventy-two hours.
Normally when Becca came over to her parents' house she'd make herself a cup of tea or coffee, not think about asking, or being asked. Now she felt inhibited. 'I suppose I ought to be going,' Becca said, expecting Frank to offer her a coffee or tea. He didn't. He quite obviously wanted her to go. 'Is there anything I can do before I go?'
Frank shook his head. 'No thank you, I'm fine. I mustn't take up too much of your valuable time.' He moved to the door as if to encourage her to go through it.
Becca felt like a pushy salesperson who has to be escorted from the premises. 'I'll be off. Busy weekend ahead and all that. It was nice to meet you again,' she said to Mrs Batey, not quite able to look her in the eye. 'Give me a ring if you need me, Dad.' She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. 'Don't worry, I'll let myself out.'
As she closed the front door behind her she reflected that, judging from the relieved smile on Frank's face, he wasn't worried in the slightest.
- ooo -
'I simply couldn't believe it,' Becca said to Martin as they trundled round the supermarket. 'There she was, sitting in my mother's place.'
'Which your mother has left vacant. I need lots of low GI carbohydrate,' Martin said, slinging a couple of packets of rice cakes into the trolley. 'Frankly, I'm not surprised Frank's found someone else.'
'Martin!' Becca put in two multi-packs of chocolate biscuits. 'My mother's away on holiday, she's hasn't moved out.'
'You may not like it, love, but your mother's said she wants a divorce. Technically she's on holiday, but we both know she's as good as moved out. You can't blame Frank for looking around for someone else.' Martin waggled the biscuits at Becca before putting them back on the shelf. 'We've got enough fat stored on our bodies to run twenty consecutive marathons.'
'They're two for the price of one.' Becca put the biscuits back in the trolley, thinking it had been a mistake to go round the supermarket with Martin. 'I don't blame Dad, I blame Mum. I don't think she'll be pleased to come back and see that woman in her place. I was going to phone, but there isn't much point - she'll be back on Monday.'
'For all you know she might be delighted. Or it might change her mind. We don't know. What we do know is that it's none of our business. We've got to stop eating this rubbish,' Martin said taking the biscuits out again. 'It's nothing but empty calories. Wholegrains, that's what we should have. Wholegrains, pulses and beans - that sort of thing.'
'But they taste nice. And Lily likes them.'
Martin sighed, and put the biscuits back into the trolley. 'Anyway, what's wrong with Frank finding someone else? June might be having a holiday romance - or two!'
'That's horrible.' She stuck her lower lip out, then realised she probably looked like Lily.
'Come on, Becs, it's not really. Just because they're your parents, doesn't mean they don't want a bit of romance in their lives. You should be pleased they're fit and well and not in wheelchairs.'
'Of course I'm pleased they're fit but...' She knew Martin was technically right but in her heart she felt Frank and June having other relationships was simply wrong. Besides, if she wasn't allowed romance, she was darned if she could see why her parents should have it. And I do want some excitement in my life beyond chocolate, she thought, following Martin as he headed round the corner in search of salads.
But Martin's hunt was deflected by Crystal coming the other way round the corner, presumably in search of chocolate biscuits too. There was a slightly awkward moment while they both hesitated over whether kissing socially was something you did in the supermarket, and then Martin obviously decided it was because he gave Crystal a peck on the cheek.
'I haven't seen you for ever, Martin, since before Christmas at least,' Crystal said. She looked flustered and for a heart-stopping moment Becca wondered if she was going to let slip something about Becca's confession. 'Gosh, Christmas seems like ages away, rather than six weeks. You're looking incredible. What's your secret?'
'Willpower,' Martin said, straightening up and pulling what remained of his tummy in. Becca knew he'd lost nearly two stone and looking at him she realised he'd developed, if not a six pack, then the beginnings of a two pack. He was looking more like the man she'd originally married.
'I suppose that means you think I haven't got any. Well, you're quite right I expect, I can resist everything except temptation.' Crystal raised her eyebrows suggestively.
'I'm off to get the rest of the list,' Martin said, waving it. 'Nice to see you, Crystal.'
'Byee,' Crystal said. She waited until Martin had gone further along into the next aisle before leaning towards Becca conspiratorially. 'I hope you've patched things up.'
'I told you we have. Forget that I said anything,' Becca said, regretting telling Crystal more than ever.
'Martin is looking so gorgeous at the moment, if you don't want him, he'll be snapped up in seconds. Heavens, it's enough to make me take up marathon running. If only it didn't involve so much exercise. Anyway, I must scoot, I've got a new bloke coming for dinner, and I've hardly got anything on my list yet,' Crystal said, despite her trolley looking full enough to keep a small cruise ship going on a transatlantic crossing. 'See you at school.'
Becca watched Crystal's retreating back. There was no doubt she was right: Martin was looking well at the moment, but as to him being snapped up... But Frank was being snapped up, Becca thought as she walked round to find where Martin and the trolley had gone. The second June's back had turned, Mrs Batey had slipped in. Not that Martin would ever go off with someone else, but she could see him being a target for a predatory woman. He was at the far end of the aisle reading the label on a pack of humous. A youngish woman walked by him and for a second her eyes flickered over him as if in appreciation. I must try harder, Becca thought as she edged beside him. If I want things to change, I have to make the effort. Spice up our sex life, just like the magazine article said. Thinking of which... 'I've just remembered I've forgotten the aubergine,' she said to Martin. 'You carry on, I'll go and get it.'
She nipped through the fruit and veg section to the ladies. On the way back she collected an aubergine and tracked along the aisles to find Martin. She waited until they were alone in one of the aisles before sidling up to him.
'I'm not wearing any knickers,' she whispered.
'What?' Martin said vaguely, busy reading the label of the low fat mayonnaise. 'I think we ought to be using the low fat version.' He put the jar in their trolley. Drat, he obviously hadn't heard her.
'I'm not wearing any knickers,' she said again, this time putting her hand on his forearm to attract his attention.
'What?' he said again, this time his attention fully engaged. 'Why not?' He dropped his voice down to a whisper. 'Have you had an accident?'
'No, of course not,' Becca said, disconcerted. She'd imagined Martin immediately wanting to whisk her away into some quiet corner, not him assuming that she was incontinent. 'It's supposed to be exciting.'
'It will be, if you trip up!' He laughed, pleased with his joke.
Becca stalked back to the ladies. So much for driving him wild in the aisles. In the cubicle she pulled her knickers from her handbag, and with them came an envelope. It was, she realised, one of Paul's letters. She usually threw them away, without even reading them, thinking it better not to look, but this one she'd grabbed to use as an impromptu To Do list.
She sat on the loo seat and opened the envelope:
'I love you. Ring me, text me, email me. Anything. Life has no meaning without you. I love you. P.'
Becca leaned back against the cubicle wall. She'd assumed at the beginning that Paul would get fed up with the game and one day the letters and flowers would stop. They'd been together such a short time, although she'd felt she'd loved him at the time, the reality was that he occupied a warm but also distant place in her heart. She lowered her eyes, thinking that while she of course couldn't have anything to do with him, it was nice to be chased like this, to feel that you could inspire passion in a man, albeit not your husband.
She looked at the letter more closely. He'd written in ink, with a real pen, with large dramatic sweeps and flourishes. He's an actor, she thought. He's married. That was more sobering. Becca stood up, and with sudden, jagged motions, ripped up the letter and envelope and flushed them down the pan.