Who Needs Men Anyway?. Victoria Cooke

I did in my drab mother-in-law-friendly attire. He probably thought she was some glossy celebrity and I was her dull behind-the-scenes assistant.

      ‘So, tell me what’s been happening since I last saw you. Are you . . .’ She circled her hand in the direction of my stomach, not concerning herself with etiquette.

      I shook my head, placing a self-conscious hand across my middle while cursing that brownie I’d eaten at Costa. ‘Not yet. James is busy working a huge case and always comes home late and tired, so there just hasn’t been any time to try.’

      ‘No time to try?’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t got the right underwear.’ She winked. I laughed and shook my head. ‘Dressing like that isn’t helping your cause.’ She looked pointedly at my blouse. ‘I thought it was maternity wear.’

      ‘Frightful Frances is coming over later.’

      She gave me a knowing look. ‘As long as you have something more fun to wear in the bedroom you’ll be fine.’

      ‘You’re obsessed.’ I laughed. Kate had landed on her feet with husband number two: wealthy property tycoon and renowned local businessman Carl, who worshipped the ground she walked on. You couldn’t blame him, though – her black glossy hair tumbled down her back, complementing her long, lean limbs. She had flawless olive skin, thanks to Italian heritage on her mother’s side, and although she’d hit her forties, had yet to discover a fine line anywhere on her face.

      ‘What does his mother want anyway?’

      ‘I’ve no idea. To wither my soul, to suck the life from me or to badger me about grandkids probably. That’s her “new thing” to focus on. Since James’s dad died she’s been visiting a lot, and it’s tiresome. She’s discovered a new sense of family and my lucky womb is suddenly part of her vision.’ I paused as the waiter approached and we ordered Greek salads and a glass of champagne each.

      ‘I thought she hated you? So she isn’t still crossing her fingers in the hope James will run off and leave you for some blue-blood horsey type?’

      I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, she’s been banging on about grandchildren since James’s dad’s funeral. Maybe she thinks a half-breed grandchild is better than no grandchild at all. Anyway, enough of her. Are you going to Lauren’s ball?’

      ‘Er, no.’ Kate hated Lauren and Carl didn’t play golf so it was a desperate ask at best. ‘I can’t make it anyway; you know I’m down in London that weekend at some presentation thing with Carl.’

      ‘Lucky so-and-so.’

      ‘Not necessarily – I actually have to go with him to the ceremony and not just while the time browsing Liberty and if it’s anything like last time, I’ll spend the night drinking cheap wine that tastes like it’s trying to kill me.’ She winced at the memory. ‘I can’t believe that hideous mare had the gall to move the date to clash with your brunch.’

      ‘I know, but it’s typical Lauren. I don’t know what that woman has against me.’

      ‘Jealousy. Her husband barely has a pulse and still manages to shag half of Cheshire behind her back. You’re happy, you have a gorgeous husband who worships you, and she can’t bear it.’

      ‘I don’t think she’s jealous, I think she looks down on me,’ I said modestly but if Kate was right about the jealousy (I knew she was right about the husband) it would explain a lot and I’d feel sorry for her.

      ‘Why are you even friends with them?’

      ‘Other than you, they’re the only people I know.’

      ‘Just don’t go.’

      ‘We have to – she rang me up to make sure we’d be there, and I really don’t want the whole of Cheshire’s elite thinking James and I are tight-fisted and antisocial. We’ll have to show our faces. Anyway, I have something juicier to discuss.’ I filled her in on my situation with Megan’s fiancé. Kate had met Megan at my house on a few occasions when she’d been visiting while I had a training session.

      ‘Men can be utter pigs,’ Kate said in response.

      ‘It’s not just men, though. Women can be as bad,’ I said diplomatically.

      ‘I suppose, but cheating men are so cliché. Well, I think you’ve done the right thing.’

      But hearing her say that made me question myself. I didn’t often suffer self-doubt, but Kate agreeing wasn’t necessarily a good thing. When we’d watched The Devil Wears Prada a few years back, she'd thought Miranda was the heroine and Andy the annoying antagonist. Fortunately, she’d mellowed some since then.

      ‘You don’t think I should’ve left it alone?’ I asked.

      ‘Of course not. Women should stick together. I’d want to know – wouldn’t you?’ Kate raised her glass, but I didn’t return the gesture.

      ‘We’ll see tomorrow.’

Chapter Three

      When the intercom buzzed later that afternoon, a feeling of dread engulfed me. On my way to press the button, I checked my hair and make-up. The intercom feed was monochrome and grainy, but James’s mother would still notice if a hair was out of place.

      ‘Hello, Frances,’ I said as I pressed the button, forcing a smile.

      ‘Charlotte,’ she said without a hint of pleasantry. I opened the gate, inwardly cursing James for not being home early, and waited at the door as Frances breezed in.

      ‘James not home?’ she asked, walking straight to the kitchen. Why she couldn’t use a full sentence when she spoke to me both puzzled and infuriated me in equal measure.

      ‘Not yet, he’ll be back a little later.’ I followed her reluctantly down the hallway.

      She heaved two bulging carrier bags up onto the worktop, which I regarded with curiosity. ‘I brought dinner.’

      ‘Oh, Frances, thank you, but I’ve prepared dinner already. You should take that home and use it all another day.’

      ‘Well, James mentioned something about salmon, and I wasn’t sure where you’d be buying it. You can’t guarantee low mercury levels if you don’t know where it’s from.’ She pulled a salmon out from one of her bags whilst I stared on in disbelief. She plonked the fish next to my ready-marinated one and rolled up her sleeves. Heat seared through my chest but I remained calm, for James’s sake.

      ‘What did you use?’ She pointed to my version of a Jamie Oliver marinade.

      ‘Err . . . red chillies, lemongrass, garlic, soy sauce.’ As I spoke, she rummaged in the fridge, pulling out the ingredients as I reeled them off, plus the rest that I was too shocked to recall.

      ‘It looks fairly adequate. I’ll whip something up while you pour the wine.’ Pour the wine – that was the first decent thing she’d said since she arrived. The wine fridge was a particular favourite of mine and James’s, made even better by the fact it was in the utility room, giving me a brief respite from Frances. I poured two glasses and threw half of mine down my neck before topping up my glass and heading back into the kitchen, where Frances was bashing coriander and ginger with the mortar and pestle I’d washed and dried only half an hour earlier.

      I handed Frances a glass and affixed a smile. ‘That smells wonderful.’ It smelt exactly the same as mine had when I bashed exactly the same ingredients together earlier.

      ‘I’ve just added my own twist,’ she said, but a quick scan of the ingredients revealed nothing different to what I’d used, so I assumed she was referring to the dash of bitterness her personality brought. ‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you alone for a while,’ she added as she proceeded to rub the salmon with the marinade.

      My heart sunk