Who Needs Men Anyway?. Victoria Cooke

slid onto the bar stool dutifully and waited for whatever it was she had to say. She pushed the salmon to one side, and if it wasn’t for the extra decorative lemongrass sprigs she’d dumped on hers, we’d have been at serious risk of consuming a mercury-laden main course.

      ‘It’s about this baby situation. You’re thirty-six now, Charlotte, and in my day, anyone over thirty was admitted to elderly confinement when they were in labour. In other words, you’re getting old and if you wait much longer, you may be too old altogether.’

      ‘Frances, people have babies well into their forties now. I think times have changed.’ I felt my cheeks burn.

      ‘Perhaps they do, but it’s not happening for you and James and I know it’s what you’ve both wanted for a while now.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘I wanted to suggest fertility treatment. You know, the menopause could be just around the corner. It does happen to some women in their thirties.’

      As I sipped my wine, I had an overwhelming urge to bite a chunk out of the glass. I clenched my teeth as the next best option before mumbling, ‘I will talk to James about it.’ How was I supposed to tell my mother-in-law that the conception problem preventing her from having a grandchild was her son’s lack of sex drive?

      ‘I’d like to think the Emsworth family name will continue.’ She raised a well-shaped and highly expectant brow at me. Before I could answer, the front door opened, and as I craned my neck around the door, was relieved to see James putting his briefcase down in the hallway.

      ‘Good evening, ladies.’ He walked in, looking as handsome as ever. He loosened his tie as he came over and gave me a kiss, squeezing my arm knowingly.

      ‘Oh, James, it’s good to see you.’ His mother beamed at him as he walked around the breakfast bar to greet her.

      ‘You too, Mother,’ he said, kissing both of her cheeks dutifully.

      ‘We were just talking about children.’ I cut into their little embrace, so James would know what I’d been dealing with. He gave me a quizzical look.

      ‘Oh, let’s not bother him with that. He’s just walked in.’ Frances waved a dismissive hand. ‘Why don’t you sit down, James, and Charlotte will get you a glass of wine.’ She shot me a look before putting the salmon in the oven, and I dutifully went to get wine. The last thing I wanted was to cause more tension. I returned to find Frances telling James how wonderfully hardworking he was. I handed him his wine, and as his mother turned her back to finish chopping some salad, I felt his hand graze my bottom. I smacked it away playfully and went to set the table, feeling a little bit lighter.

      ***

      I paced the living room, waiting for Megan to arrive. Right on time, I saw her car at the gate, and I pressed the button on the intercom to open them before she even rang. There was a part of me that hadn’t even expected her to turn up, and who would’ve blamed her? I could only assume she was going through hell. It had driven me mad to the point that I’d almost considered James’s mother turning up a welcome distraction – until she accused me of being menopausal that was.

      When I opened the front door, Megan smiled cheerfully and bounced inside in a brightly coloured top with a ‘unicorn’ emblazoned on it. I wondered if her upbeat demeanour was just a front and eyed her suspiciously, scrutinising her face, looking for cracks in the façade. There was nothing notable.

      She caught me looking at her. ‘Is everything okay? Has my mascara smudged?’ She wiped a finger under her lash-line.

      ‘Everything is fine. You look . . . well. Really well, in fact,’ I said, trying to conceal my surprise.

      ‘I had a Guinot facial yesterday. It was a present from Mike,’ she gushed. She was happy. She didn’t catch him! He must have changed his plans. ‘Anyway, how are you?’ She furrowed her brow in concern. ‘Did your cramps die down?’

      It took me a moment to figure out what she was talking about, and I nodded, too busy reeling at how slippery Meandering Mike was. I needed a better plan. ‘I bet Mike was glad to have you home early?’ I pressed, needing to know why my plan had failed.

      ‘He was out when I got home.’ She shrugged. ‘Let’s get started then.’ While she fiddled with her iPhone trying to get some music to come on, I replayed the conversation Mike had had with the waitress over in my head. He’d definitely said ‘come over.’ I was sure of it.

      ‘That’s a shame,’ I continued, not willing to let the subject drop yet.

      ‘Well, I did ring him on the way home to tell him I’d be back early, but he was already leaving to go to the gym. It was nice to have the TV to myself though.’

      I knew my part of the plan hadn’t been flawed. She’d warned him. I could picture them, all red-faced, scrabbling around for their clothes before escaping into the evening.

      ‘Anyway, come on – we only have an hour today.’

      She gave me an intense sixty-minute workout, but while I went through the motions, my mind was plotting a better, more foolproof plan.

      ***

      When it came off the printer the next morning, it looked fantastic. One of the charities I organised fundraisers for was a local hospice, who just so happened to be in need of a wheelchair-accessible swing – and they were five hundred pounds short. A few weeks earlier, I’d come up with the idea of a raffle and donated the prize of one night at the Halcyon Hotel with a two-course meal and use of the spa thrown in. Raffle tickets would be five pounds, and one hundred per cent of the proceeds would go to the charity. My intention was to sell them at the brunch I was throwing but I’d had a better idea.

      I’d spent the morning putting together a promotional flyer with photos of the spa, and it all looked very enticing. All I had to do was get waitress woman to buy a ticket, and hope she’d share the prize with Mike. But first, I had to make it look like the tickets were selling out. The next hour or so was spent using my address book to fill in the names and addresses of people who had already purchased tickets – just not to their own knowledge. Then I took some money from the safe and stuffed it in the tin before putting on my charity lanyard and heading over to the café.

      I walked in and spotted her straight away, pottering behind the counter.

      ‘Oh, hello, what can I get you?’ she asked. The nice filter coffee lady was nowhere to be seen and I wasn’t chancing the push-button cappuccino.

      ‘Nothing, actually. I’m here from the Springwell Children’s Hospice and was hoping to sell off one of my last few remaining raffle tickets to raise money for a new disability swing. If I could just show you what the hospice manager is hoping to purchase, you’ll see what a great addition it will be.’ I handed her a booklet from the hospice with a picture of a child enjoying a similar swing elsewhere.

      ‘Oh, yes it does look wonderful, but—’ she said politely sliding the booklet back towards me.

      ‘I could tell when I walked in you had a kind heart and for just a five-pound contribution, you could not only help the children at the hospice, but also win an all-expenses stay at the Halcyon Hotel in Manchester next weekend. The package includes a spa day and evening meal with a Prosecco welcome and one hundred per cent of the ticket money raised goes to the charity.’ I held up the hotel poster, which she eyed with interest.

      The corner of her mouth twisted. ‘Oh go on then! Yes, I’ll buy a ticket. I’ve always wanted to stay there; it looks gorgeous doesn’t it?’

      I struggled to control myself. This is even easier than I’d imagined.

      ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, plastering on a smile. ‘Can you just fill in your contact details here for me so I can get in touch if you win?’

      She bent down to fill in the heavily populated form and emptied five pounds from her tip jar before handing it over.

      ‘Thank you, and good luck.’ I grinned at