Summer Holiday. Penny Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ with a shock, that he was. And as the conversation (now a shouting conversation) continued, she discovered that it was of long standing and with his secretary. She remembered yelling at some stage that he was a cliché. It was strange that even though she wanted a divorce, wanted never to see Nigel step out of his trousers ever again, it was still awful.

      It was the division of the spoils that did it. There were days when she had cried over the toaster for her lost dreams. The things they had bought together when she had imagined herself in love. But now she could see that that had been youthful folly, a combination of lust and laziness. Marrying Nigel had relieved her of the need to get a proper job.

      Lucy blamed Miranda for breaking up a happy family. Jack had been upset but understanding.

      After the decree absolute, Miranda had bought herself a house in Notting Hill and put the rest of the money in the bank. It wasn’t a huge amount, but she had reckoned that, if she was careful, she could have a lovely break before she found employment.

      The time had come. But what job?

      I need a change of direction, Miranda thought, putting her toes out from under the duvet and wiggling them. Tomorrow I’ll do something to facilitate finding a job. At least it’ll be a change from thinking about sodding dates.

      Eventually, as her mind wandered off to variations on a theme of sheep, she drifted into sleep.

      The next morning she arose full of purpose. She had a shower, washed her hair and put on a conditioning treatment, then vigorously applied a body scrub, which smelt slightly off. Wrapped in a fluffy new towel – she had thrown out all those that might have touched Nigel – she plucked her eyebrows and moisturised, using industrial quantities of cream. She applied blow-drying serum to her mid-length red-gold hair, then hung upside down to do the roots, leaving the rest to curl naturally.

      ‘Right,’ she said, as she strode to the wardrobe. She took out a thin pink shirt and a pair of jeans cut off to the knee. Looking critically in the mirror, she was in two minds about whether she was mutton dressed as lamb since she could see her bra through the shirt. But without a husband or children to declare either way, she decided to go with it.

      She breakfasted on two pieces of toast, one with marmalade and the other with Nutella, which looked a little funny – she’d probably bought it when Jack was about eight, and a lot of buttery crumbs had gone under the bridge since then.

      With a cup of tea in hand, she opened her computer, checked her emails and hovered over the Google search space. What should she put? Maybe, she thought, I should get into the habit of having a job before actually applying for one. It was a bit scary, the idea of an interview. And she was a bit long in the tooth to be asking for work experience.

      In the absence of anything springing to mind, she typed ‘Constructive Things to Do’ and clicked on the first result. A list of twenty-five possibilities popped up, including updating your MP3 player and throwing out clothes. Very therapeutic, but not what she was after.

      Another suggested learning how to spin a pencil round your thumb. Not now. Although it would be a good trick – and certainly an advance on dating.

      An hour later, Miranda had got herself on to a website advertising eco-produce. She went and made herself another cup of tea, and opened the kitchen cupboard to see if there was anything that might help it go down. There wasn’t. That was the flip-side of living on your own – there was never a biscuit when you wanted one.

      Back at the computer, she chose a different heading for Google: ‘Constructive Things to Do In Your 40s’.

      One word stuck out: ‘Volunteering’.

      ‘By Jove, I think she’s got it,’ she said, double-clicking on a link. By lunchtime Miranda Blake, divorcee, forty-three, had volunteered for canal clearing in the Cotswolds.

      She printed off the list of suggested items to take with her, ticked off those she had, and ringed those she hadn’t. What on earth was a ‘wicking shirt’ when it was at home? She Googled it. Oh, right, she thought. What we used to call Aertex when we were at school and forced to play hockey in inclement weather.

      Her mobile phone rang. ‘Hi, Lydia.’

      ‘Miranda,’ said Lydia, the wife of one of Nigel’s friends. ‘Wondered how the date with James went last night.’

      ‘Erm. Fine. But I don’t think he’s right for me,’ answered Miranda, suddenly remembering she had told James she would be on an early flight.

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘You know. Not really the same sense of humour. And things,’ she ended lamely.

      ‘Handsome, though,’ stated Lydia, in her clipped way.

      ‘Yes. Oh, yes. Definitely,’ said Miranda, shaking her head vigorously even though Lydia couldn’t see.

      ‘And he’s loaded.’

      ‘Yes.’ She had noticed his very expensive watch and the new Aston Martin.

      ‘So, are you going on a second date?’

      ‘Well … no,’ said Miranda.

      ‘But you’d be perfect together,’ pronounced Lydia.

      In what way? wondered Miranda. Perfect together as in chicken and Lego? ‘Mm,’ she said, debating where to go from here. ‘Thing is, I don’t think it would work. He’s sort of similar to Nigel.’

      ‘To Nigel?’ Lydia almost shrieked.

      ‘Banker. Square?’ she essayed.

      ‘Square?’ repeated Lydia.

      There was a silence while Miranda tried to form a sentence that wouldn’t antagonise her friend. Or was she a friend? Would a proper friend have set her up with such a – such a muppet? ‘I think what I’m looking for, Lydia, is a change,’ she finally tried. ‘Someone who isn’t in the banking world, maybe. Someone to be silly with. Carefree with. A diversion.’

      Lydia of the carefully styled coiffure was not having that. ‘What you need is someone who is going to look after you. And that means a man with a solid career. Money in the bank. James ticks all the boxes – and he doesn’t have any children to get in the way. As I told you, he’s newly out of a long relationship with a concert pianist. Which means he can be arty. And so on and so forth.’

      Really! How could she have a friend who would say ‘and so on and so forth’? She typed into the computer: ‘How to End a Friendship with Someone Dull’.

      ‘Are you typing?’ asked Lydia.

      ‘No,’ responded Miranda, swiftly, smiling to herself at the options listed. She would read them all later.

      ‘I think he’s worth a second stab.’

      ‘Maybe you’re right,’ lied Miranda. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll have a little think.’ Anything to end this conversation. ‘Now,’ she added, ‘I have to sort myself out. I’m going on an expedition and I reckon I need some wicking shirts and a pair of gaiters. I’ll speak to you later.’

      ‘Shall I tell James to call you?’

      ‘No. СКАЧАТЬ