The Big Five O

‘Terrible teens,’ Roz added to Charlotte now.

‘Nightmare, I remember it well.’ Charlotte looked at Roz harder. ‘Everything else OK?’

Roz nodded, her stomach churning.

‘So I’ll text you about getting together so I can show you round both places and give you the keys, and we’ll talk dosh. I was thinking an hourly rate.’ Charlotte hugged her. ‘I’ll pay well as it’s you, love.’

Roz squeezed her back, touched and terrified. The extra earnings would be good but she needed the job for more than that. For a moment she felt lightheaded as bile rose in her throat. Charlotte was the best sort of friend. Roz dug her nails into her palms to stop her feelings of panic overtaking her. Charlotte trusted her to complete exactly what was required. What would Charlotte say if she knew what Roz was really going to do …

Chapter 3

‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do.’

Charlotte sat at her super-sized kitchen table, hands clasped around her empty mug, and stared at the piece of paper she’d been looking at for at least an hour before Fay had arrived.

Fay picked it up. ‘In itself it’s not exactly conclusive, is it?’ she said, raising her precision-plucked eyebrows.

‘There was the message as well.’

‘And are you sure that was the same number?’ Fay enquired.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I think it had seven, nine, five in it.’

‘So do half the mobile numbers in the country.’

Charlotte sighed. ‘I called you because you have an analytical mind and will take a practical approach. What shall I do?’ Charlotte said again, a plaintive note in her voice. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

Fay ran a hand thoughtfully through her short dark hair and pulled her chair a little closer to the table. ‘OK. Let’s go through it again. Roger was looking shifty and then he got a phone message …’

Charlotte twisted the mug around again. ‘No, he wasn’t looking anything. His phone was plugged into the charger over there. I was right by it when the message came in and I could see the first line of it as a notification on the screen. There was a smiley face and ‘I’ll put you through your paces on Wednesday when …’ I couldn’t read any more without unlocking it. And I couldn’t do that because he was in the doorway as it beeped and the next thing he’d shot across the room and picked it up and read it. And put the phone back in his pocket.’

‘Which isn’t actually an admission of guilt,’ put in Fay.

‘So later,’ Charlotte went on, ignoring her, ‘when he’d left it on the side again, I tried to unlock it and it isn’t the same code any more! Why would he change the number, unless it was because he didn’t want me looking in his phone?’

‘Well, why are you looking in his phone?’ Fay fixed her with a searching look. ‘Why not just say: who was that from?’

‘I did – and he said it was someone from work.’

‘Well, maybe it was. You know, a bit of banter. You should hear the way my blokes go on. They–’

‘Well it clearly wasn’t,’ Charlotte interrupted hotly. ‘Because later still, I asked to use his phone – saying I wanted to WhatsApp Becky and I’d left my phone upstairs and couldn’t be arsed to go and get it – and–’

‘He didn’t want you to?’

‘He handed it over as smiley as anything!’

Fay frowned in confusion. Charlotte’s face was grim. ‘And guess what? The message had gone. He’d fucking deleted it.’

Charlotte’s voice rose. ‘And it wasn’t someone from work anyway, cos their number would be stored wouldn’t it? It would say Fred or Dick. This was just a number … It’s some woman he’s met in a chat room.’

‘Oh come on!’ Fay’s eyebrows had risen further. ‘That’s going nought to ninety a bit quick. Could be a colleague he rarely deals with–’

‘Why the banter then?’

‘Or someone he usually speaks to in person so they’re not in his phone. OR–’ Fay looked inspired, ‘– it was simply a wrong number. Which is why he deleted it. And he came across quickly because he was expecting someone from work …’

‘You’re not listening!’ Charlotte said tetchily. ‘He said ‘someone from work’, which is also odd because usually he’d say the name.’

‘Why don’t you just ask him again?’

‘Because if he is up to something, I’m going to catch him at it. I’m not going to be made to feel paranoid this time.’

Privately, Fay thought it might be a trifle late for that. She frowned again. ‘This time?’

Charlotte hesitated, still turning the mug round and round on the table. ‘There was this girl in his office,’ she said. ‘Hannah. Bit of a bunny boiler. She had a crush on him and he was lapping it up till I found out.’

‘Most men would. Did anything happen?’

‘He said not. They had some drinks … She used to text him all the time though. Suppose she’s back?’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Six years or so. Laura warned her off initially before I got hold of it. By then Roger was panicking anyway because she wouldn’t leave him alone and eventually she moved away.’

‘Unlikely she’d reappear after all this time.’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘I’ve looked for her on Facebook but I couldn’t–’

Fay put hand on arm. ‘Don’t!’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘I know! I hate myself for being like this and I hate Roger for making me.’

Fay spoke firmly. ‘Now come on. We don’t know he has yet. If that Hannah caused him trouble before, he’d hardly engage with her now, even if she did turn up again. And this Marion could be anyone.’

They both looked at the piece of paper Fay was still holding – displaying the name and mobile number in Roger’s handwriting.

‘A client for example’ said Fay.

‘He doesn’t have clients any more does he? He’s the in-house lawyer.’

‘Who’s negotiating a string of take-overs – he told me about it when I came for the curry. CTG are snapping up all sorts of smaller wealth management outfits, aren’t they? Marion could be some hot-shot chief executive he had to phone back – or her secretary!’

‘Yes, she could be. But my gut tells me she’s the same woman who sent the sexual message. And I feel like I did last time. When I knew there was something up but I couldn’t put my finger on it.’ Her voice became bitter. ‘And he denied it of course.’

‘Well of course he did.’ Fay’s tone was matter of fact. ‘You said – he was panicking.’

‘And I have the same feeling again,’ Charlotte went on. ‘That he’s hiding something.’

‘Your birthday present?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Look,’ Fay leant her elbows on the scrubbed wood and looked hard at Charlotte. ‘You don’t have to wind yourself up like this. You simply say: Roger, I read that message and it sounded like innuendo and I couldn’t help noticing when I was having a poke about, that you’ve changed the code on your phone. Why?’

‘But then he’ll make up something plausible that makes me sound like a mad, jealous old shrew and then I’ll feel worse. And–’ Charlotte stopped abruptly and stood up. ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’

Fay looked at her watch. ‘Yeah ok. Len’s at the office. I don’t need to go back.’ She pulled out her phone and glanced at it. ‘Just one.’

Charlotte crossed her kitchen and opened the huge fridge, returning to the big pine table with two goblets of white and a bowl of peanuts.

She sat down and took a swallow. ‘What I’m going to do,’ she said, putting the glass down and surveying Fay with what appeared to be fresh determination, ‘is see what happens on Wednesday.’

She took another mouthful of her wine. ‘If he’s got a rendezvous planned then he’ll have to make some excuse to be back late. So then I’ll know. And if she – whoever she is – has been putting him through his paces, he’ll find it was nothing to what I’ll be doing when he gets home!’

‘OK,’ said Fay. ‘So that’s a plan. Sounds good. Now, how are we getting on with the party?’

She watched Charlotte, as her friend reluctantly allowed the subject to be changed and brought Fay up to date with her investigations into cake designs and balloon prices. ‘Two hundred in silver, a hundred in this sort of pale lilac, and a hundred in burgundy – they look really stylish grouped together. And the pale ones will have burgundy lettering – The Big Five-O!’

‘I like it,’ Fay nodded. ‘Helium?’

‘Of course. Long strings so they come up from the floor, with shorter ones for the tables.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘I thought we could let them all go over Viking Bay at the end. Video it!’

‘Yeah, great.’

There was a small silence. Charlotte had finished her first glass of wine and was pouring a second. Fay put her hand over the top of her own glass. ‘Got the car.’

‘If I even feel like having a party then–’ Charlotte added.

‘You will!’ Fay ate a peanut.

‘I wish I was more like you,’ Charlotte suddenly burst out. ‘You’re so, so – sure of everything.’

‘You are like me!’ Fay grinned at Charlotte. ‘First time I met you – when you were still with Wainwright’s and there was that bloody woman with the poodles whose mortgage hadn’t gone through – do you remember?’

Charlotte shook back her curls. ‘How could I forget? You had two vans of her furniture outside and she was wailing and all those damn dogs were yapping.’

‘We were already short of a driver – that’s why I was there – and we had another job to load up the same day. I was about to land her one when you turned up.’ Fay laughed. ‘I can see you now. ‘Enough!’ you said. ‘Calm down.’ And even the dogs shut the hell up.’

Charlotte smiled.

‘I knew then that you were my sort of woman,’ finished Fay. ‘We don’t fuck about. We’re toughies.’

When Fay had left, Charlotte poured another drink, pulling a face as thirteen-year-old Joe, arriving home from school and dumping his rucksack and sports bag in the middle of the kitchen floor, frowned at her. ‘You’re not drunk, are you?’

‘Of course I’m not.’

She supposed it made a change from his usual repertoire of grunts and for once he wasn’t surgically attached to his phone or Xbox either. ‘Fay was round,’ she said, aware as she said it, of the effects of the wine on her largely empty stomach. She took the last handful of peanuts. ‘Have you had a good day?’

Joe shrugged.

‘Homework?’

‘Haven’t got any.’

‘Don’t believe you.’

He grinned at her and she heard his feet thumping their way upstairs, his bags and blazer left behind where they’d been dropped. She knew she wouldn’t see him again until she called him for dinner and that he’d disappear straight after. She sighed. The house felt different without Becky. They’d done nothing but row before she left for uni – it was time for Becky to spread her wings – but Charlotte missed her daughter more than she could ever have imagined. If it had been Becky standing here, who’d seen that text, she would have tackled Roger at once. ‘What’s this Dad? Who’s putting you through your paces? Sounds a bit strange …’

Last time, she’d tried to keep it from the kids, but Becky had picked up the tail end of the hoo-ha. Knew there’d been a woman chasing her father and had been none too impressed.

Charlotte rose and opened the fridge door, pulling out a bowl of chicken pieces she’d dragged the skin from that morning.

Fay was right. It wasn’t necessarily a repeat of anything like that. Roger had promised her. They’d made a pact never again to keep anything hidden, however bad. For a moment Charlotte felt a stab of guilt. She’d had a long conversation with Laura on the phone this morning. Lu had said she should be talking to Roger …

She pulled a baking tray from the drawer next to the Aga and began to spread out the thighs.

She was fond of Fay – as Fay had said, they’d hit it off straight away. Now they often ended up with shared clients and Fay was always reliable and straightforward. Fay kept her life uncluttered. No commitments, no husband, no kids. She worked hard, played hard – saw things in black and white. Charlotte found her entertaining and she’d filled a gaping hole when Laura had moved away. Laura was emotional and sensitive and if she were here now would have listened endlessly to Charlotte’s uncertainties and doubts. Fay was a fixer, but Laura would have hugged her and allowed Charlotte to debate the situation until Charlotte felt calm again.

She took a small sharp knife out of the drawer and began to slash at the chicken in front of her – squeezing more lemon juice over the rosy flesh she’d left marinating, trickling olive oil, adding herbs and black pepper.

As she sliced onions and crushed garlic, she wondered if Fay was right and she should just tackle Roger when he got in. But a part of her wanted to test him – to see whether he would be late on Wednesday, to prove to herself that the uneasy feeling in her solar plexus was the intuition that had been right before, and not the menopausal neuroses she could see Fay suspected.

She was chopping chillies when she heard his key in the lock. Hastily shoving the piece of paper out of sight, she listened to the familiar evening sounds, the jingle of his keys as he dropped them into the bowl on the hall table, the thud of his briefcase on the bottom stair – his low call of hell-oo as he walked into the kitchen already shrugging off his jacket.

Her gut twisted as he came in, big and smiling, the way he’d come in a thousand times before. He leant round her, bending to kiss her cheek. ‘Smells good.’

‘That’s just the oven pre-heating.’

Roger looked at the tray of chicken, as she scattered the finely chopped chillies and sloshed in red wine. ‘I can see it will smell good soon then!’

She bent to put the tray in the Aga and then turned and searched his face. He looked as he always did. ‘You seem happy.’

Roger nodded. ‘Yep, all going well. I’ve got a dinner with the chief exec of AG next week but it’s all going through remarkably smoothly and–’

‘What night?’ It was out – too sharply – before she could stop herself.

‘Err Thursday I think – is that a problem?’

‘No,’ she shook her head, turning away and pulling a bag of spinach leaves towards her. ‘Just wondered. What about the rest of the week? Have you got a lot on?’ She swung back to watch his face.

He looked surprised. ‘About the same as usual. Do you need me to do something?’ Was she imagining it or had that been a flicker of anxiety?

‘I might need to be out a couple of evenings myself, that’s all,’ she improvised. ‘I want to get together with the others about the party and I’m seeing a new client – she can only do after 8pm … Just thinking about Joe …’

‘I won’t be late any other night …’

She felt the relief wash over her as she continued to gaze at him. He was looking pretty good at fifty-two. Grey hair suited him. He was a bit heavier than he used to be but he had the height to carry it off. He was still an attractive man. Women would still be interested, but he was coming home to her. He smiled again. She could see he was wondering why she was so uptight.

‘I had a funny text exchange with Bex today,’ he said. ‘She sounds buoyant.’

‘Oh.’ Charlotte pushed down the pang in her solar plexus. ‘I haven’t heard from her.’

Roger shook his head. ‘It was only because she sent me a photo. Some bloke sprawled out in front of the TV watching football surrounded by beer cans.’ He laughed. ‘She said it reminded her of me. One of the boys down the corridor is an Arsenal supporter – she said the way he went on about it was like listening to me and Joe.’ He draped an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. ‘I’m sure she’ll be onto you soon. Wanting advice on how to cook something – what was it last time – artichokes?’

Charlotte nodded.

‘She sent you her love, anyway,’ Roger added.

‘That’s nice,’ Charlotte said brightly, wondering if this was true or her husband was just trying to make her feel better.

She smiled at him. ‘Want a beer?’

‘I’ll just get this suit off.’

His suit jacket was still hanging on the back of one of the pine chairs, when the beep came. Charlotte waited. He didn’t look towards it.

‘Sounds like you’ve got a text,’ she said lightly.

‘It’ll be Don. He was going to let me know about squash on Sunday.’

‘Oh.’

She walked to the doorway. ‘Joe!’ she yelled, hating the way her stomach had clenched again. ‘Chilli chicken!’

When she turned back, Roger had retrieved the phone and was looking at the screen. As she came towards him, he snapped it off and dropped it back into the pocket.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Don’s booked a court for nine.’ Roger patted his stomach. ‘It’s going to be hard work – I’ve lost fitness doing all these long hours–’

Charlotte tried to read his expression. Was this an act for her benefit? Reminding her of the demands of work so she wouldn’t question it if he came home late? Was it even really his friend Don who’d sent a message?

‘Well, don’t have a heart attack!’

‘Nah, we’ll take it easy – a couple of old gents together.’

Charlotte suddenly and inexplicably felt close to tears.

She knew how the others saw it. ‘Hostess-with-the-mostest’, Sherie always called her. She knew from the outside her life looked idyllic – the big family home in Kingsgate, the loving husband, the great kids, regular holidays and frequent entertaining. And it was good – she’d always known how lucky she was. She was the one the other three relied on to always look on the bright side, to feed and nurture everyone, to open a bottle, stick a roast in the oven and make everything all right again. She was a regular, if ageing, Pollyanna. Wasn’t she?

Except now she felt strange. Lost somehow. Even when she was talking and laughing, these days she was always touched with a low-level dread as if something terrible was about to happen. For the first time ever, she lay awake at 4.a.m. worrying about things she’d usually not give a second thought to. She dithered over what to wear, felt anxious about something happening to one of the children. Or Roger. Bloody Roger – it was all his fault she was stressed like this.

Roger was supposed to be her best friend who she’d trust with her life. She had once. She’d forgiven him for Hannah but she realised she’d never been completely at ease since.

As Joe ambled into the room, Charlotte busied herself getting the tray out of the Aga so neither of them would see the tears in her eyes.

Fay might think that Charlotte was as tough as she was, but Charlotte knew she wasn’t at all …

Chapter 4

Fay cracked three eggs into sizzling oil and expertly flipped the sausages browning under the grill, throwing a look at the young man lolling in her kitchen doorway. She remembered the evening she’d told the others about Cory.

‘It’s the perfect arrangement for both of us,’ Fay had explained, smiling at Sherie’s look of amazement. ‘I get a lithe young body in bed with me and he gets a decent breakfast. When Cory stays with Tiffany or whatever her name is, it’s chipped mugs and a biscuit if he’s lucky.’

Sherie had looked appalled. ‘You know he’s got someone else?’

Fay had snorted. ‘Of course he has! He’s twenty-three – wants to be at it all the time – and I don’t want him round more than once a week. I love to see him come–’ she gave a dirty chuckle ‘–as it were, and I’m happy to see him go again–’ Fay had enjoyed the way the others were gawping at her. ‘Confident that he will return because he gets double bacon and toast with proper butter.’

Charlotte had given her a huge grin. Roz nodded with admiration. But Sherie, as usual, persisted. ‘But don’t you want–’

‘Something long-term or permanent?’ Fay was brisk. ‘No thanks – I tried that and it didn’t suit me. Can’t be doing with someone hanging around all the time. I go through my front door and I shut it behind me and I thank the Lord it’s just me. The only bit that bothers me is why on earth I didn’t give Dave his marching orders earlier!’

‘How long ago was it?’ Sherie always wanted the detail.

‘I don’t know,’ Fay’s tone suggested she couldn’t be bothered to work it out. ‘Seven years or so. Best thing I ever did.’

Sherie had opened her mouth and shut it again.

As Cory came up behind her, and put his arms around Fay’s waist, there was a moment when she thought what she’d told Sherie might almost be true. She pictured Dave walking away from her down the path, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, a bulging bag in his other hand. She’d sat quite still on the bottom stair, watching through the still-open front door. She had stayed there a long time.

Fay jerked back to the present as Cory nuzzled into her neck. ‘Are we having hash browns?’

‘I’ve got some fried potatoes in the oven.’

‘That’s why I love you.’

‘Pah!’ She nudged him off as she crossed to the coffee machine, blowing air out dismissively. ‘Through your stomach.’

He often said things like that. The young were supposed to be thoughtless and self-absorbed and she’d have expected him to be off like a long dog once the wake-up shag was over, but he was always tactile and affectionate in the mornings. Would hang about after breakfast if it was a weekend, and talk to her about his job at the bakery, his family, his mate Josh who was earning a fortune in Canary Wharf but sleeping so little and sticking so much coke up his nose that Cory worried he would fall apart.

He asked Fay questions too but she told him little. He knew she was running the business her late father had started when she was a baby, that she was divorced, that she spoke reasonable Spanish and could knit. But she was careful about anything more.

‘Nothing heavy,’ she’d warned, when he’d first come home with her after pitching up at Green’s wine bar with a couple of pals, the night she was running the quiz. ‘We’re just doing each other a favour.’

She hadn’t expected to see him again but back he came, week after week. Now he’d suggested they spend this entire Friday to Sunday together but Fay had just laughed. ‘Do you really want to look at me sprawled on the sofa in my pyjamas with a facemask on?’

He laughed too. ‘You wouldn’t be!’

‘I would. Weekends off are my down time. You can come Friday night and bugger off in the morning. And if you’re very good, you can pop in Sunday afternoon for a cup of tea and a scone.’

‘You sound like my nan.’

‘I expect I’m older than she is.’

She certainly had a couple of years on his mother. Cory had mentioned his mum’s forty-seventh birthday a few weeks ago. No doubt she’d be as horrified as Sherie if she knew where her little soldier had spent the night. Fay gave a small chuckle to herself as she pressed the button to take the roof down on her red Mazda MX5, liking the feel of the cold air on her face as she reversed out of her driveway and headed along the Eastern Esplanade. The sea was grey and choppy today, but the sun was bright.

Fay turned into Rectory Road and down through Nelson Place to Albion Street, looking at the restaurants and cafes that now lined the bottom of Broadstairs, so many more than when she’d been a child. She swung the car past Costa Coffee, wrinkling her nose in disapproval – she had banked there when it was still Barclays! – and up York Street, headed for the Pysons Road Industrial Estate where Sternhouse Removals had its home.

She put her foot down as she left the last roundabout, finding the wind whipping through her hair exhilarating. It was a lovely cold, sharp day. She would have liked to have reason to take the car for a belt up the motorway but the office called. Reluctantly she slowed down and turned onto the estate following the winding road round until her empire stood before her.

She felt the small rush of pleasure and achievement she got every time she saw the row of distinctive brown and orange lorries, parked outside the small glass and steel reception area with the huge storage facility stretching behind it. The business had been here for nearly fifty years – but it had tripled in size since she’d taken over.