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Meat Feast Slice (#ue83dc5e5-c36b-5cf3-9714-700440d80582)
Stevie springs up from the sofa in the soulless hotel bar and greets me with a lingering kiss. ‘Hi, gorgeous! You look lovely, Aud. I love that dress. You smell great too, and – wow – those shoes …’
‘Thanks.’ My irritation over the chicken bones melts away instantly. Despite the drive, I opted for vertiginous black patent heels – stockings too, middle-aged cliché that I am (Stevie is a whippersnapper of 34. He was born in the 80s, for God’s sake – okay, only just. But still).
‘G&T, is it?’
‘Love one,’ I say, unable to tear away my gaze as he makes his way to the bar. With his mop of dishevelled muddy blond hair and swaggery walk, he really is ridiculously sexy. He turns and smiles. He has the kind of angelic features – wide, clear eyes, a fine nose and pouty lips – that remind me of the centrefold pin-ups I used to rip out of my teen magazines: the kind you’d collect week by week, desperate for the face bit (which always came last). Whenever we’re together, I see women glancing at him in appreciation. Not that there are any other women here now. Apart from us, the place is empty. The barman, who looks no older than Morgan, has already been smirking at us. I guess couples don’t often greet each other like this here. The clientele are usually solo travellers – bored salesmen, besuited business types – or couples too tired to drive the whole way home. They’re just breaking up the journey. They don’t meet here for dates.
He returns with my G&T and a large glass of red for himself. ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ he says, planting another kiss on my cheek.
I smile. ‘Well, it’s still two days away …’
‘Yeah, I know. Wish I could see you then but I’m down in the West Country, can’t get out of it …’
‘It’s okay, I know how it is. I’m having lunch with the girls – everyone’s off on Friday – and I’m sure Morgan’ll pull something out of the hat.’
‘Yeah?’ Stevie laughs. ‘You reckon?’
‘Well, I’m not expecting a three-tier birthday cake but he might get it together to bring me a lukewarm coffee in bed.’ I chuckle as Stevie winds an arm around my shoulders.
‘I’d love to be with you.’ He pauses and sips his wine. ‘I’m actually thinking of selling the company. Sick of all this travelling, babe.’
‘Really?’ I am genuinely shocked. Stevie has built up his business from scratch and, from what I can gather, has done pretty well for himself. I can only assume he’s a workaholic, as he lives in an immaculate one-bedroomed flat above his office in York. Despite it only being a twenty-minute drive away, I’ve only had the pleasure of going there … once. He’s hardly ever home, he explained. It’s just a base, not somewhere he’s especially attached to.
‘I just want to see more of you,’ he adds.
‘Well, I’d like that too.’ I sense a flurry of desire as he rests a hand on my thigh.
‘The thing is,’ I add, ‘we could see each other more. I mean, we don’t have to stay in hotels so often, do we? Morgan doesn’t have a problem with you staying at our place, you know.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I realise that. He’s a good kid.’ Stevie crooks a brow as his fingers detect the bump of suspenders beneath the flimsy fabric of my dress. ‘But it’s nice to, you know … have privacy.’
The barman squirts a table with disinfectant and gives it a vigorous rub with a yellow cloth. I know what he’s thinking: They’re having an affair. I’ve already been blamed for the chicken bones and now I’m being labelled as the kind of woman who sleeps with other women’s husbands. And I’m not. Stevie has never been married, and has no children. Apart from living with a hairdresser in his early twenties – he refers to her as ‘the lunatic’ – he’s breezed through life pretty much doing his own thing. ‘Well,’ I continue, ‘there’s nothing to stop me coming over to your flat more often.’
‘That miserable little place?’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s another thing, darling. I need to get myself a proper place – a home – somewhere that’s not just a crash pad …’
‘I like your flat,’ I remark.
He looks amazed. ‘You like it? What on earth is there to like?’
I sip my G&T. ‘Well … it’s so pared down and uncluttered. You don’t have stuff strewn everywhere. It feels sparse and simple, like a holiday flat.’
Stevie smiles. ‘It’s not very homely, babe …’
‘I don’t mind, honestly. I have enough homeliness at home.’
He laughs and squeezes my hand. It is weird, though, this motorway fixation. I mean, I can understand the motel thing in the movies, in the States. They are tawdry and thrilling and slightly dangerous. Exciting things happen in those places. But this is an ordinary service station in Lancashire, with rain trickling steadily down the windows and a hoover droning away in the foyer. Stevie drains his glass. ‘Fancy another? Or shall we just head up to the room?’
‘It’s only just gone eight,’ I say, laughing.
‘Yeah, well …’ He leans closer and whispers, ‘Got chilled champagne in my case …’
I grin. ‘Very tempting.’
‘And proper champagne glasses …’
‘So you brought your special seduction kit,’ I tease him, brushing away the tiniest thought that this doesn’t feel quite right either – this kit thing – or the fact that we never bother with dinner on our overnighters. But, hell, he is an incredibly sexy man. So I knock back my G&T and grab his hand as he takes my small overnight bag. I’ve already brushed aside my doubts as we hurry upstairs – there’s no lift – and tumble into our room.
We kiss fervently, like teenagers who’ve just discovered this thrilling act. As we pull apart, I register Stevie’s small black leather wheeled case parked beside the bed. I glance around the room, which is pretty standard for a motorway hotel: decorative turquoise cushions arranged diagonally on the bed; coffee- and tea-making facilities crammed onto a small plastic tray on the flimsy desk; a hairdryer on a stand; a notice about fire evacuation procedures and a guide to Interesting Things to See and Do in Lancashire. And that’s about it. They’re all like this: the four we’ve stayed at on the M62, and the others we’ve ‘enjoyed’ – and yes, I have enjoyed them in a bizarre kind of way – on the M6 and M1.
From his case Stevie lifts out a small leather box, in which two cut-glass champagne flutes nestle in an inky blue velvet nest. Not that I need champagne. That sole G&T would have done nicely. Then he’s lifting a tissue-wrapped bottle of Krug from the case – it’s properly chilled, he must have only just bought it – and popping it expertly open and filling our glasses.
We kick off our shoes and recline side by side on the bed, holding hands, legs stretched out. The bubbles whoosh to my head, and only momentarily do I wonder if Morgan will remember to lock the back door as well as the front.
Stevie kisses me, softly and slowly, and it’s so lovely I’m barely aware of the distant hum of traffic outside. Another noise starts up – a fan, or an air conditioning unit – then fades from my consciousness as Stevie peels off my dress, followed by the only decent underwear I possess: a black push-up bra and matching lacy knickers. I can’t quite fathom why sex with this man is so thrilling; perhaps because we only see each other around once a week? Or is it his relative youth, his taut, toned body? Or that we mainly do it in hotels? If you add it all up – the weird hotel meet-ups, the fact that I can hardly ever reach him on his mobile – you’d probably say, run a mile, woman, are you a raving idiot? You might even say, would the real Audrey drop everything to rush off and meet her date at a Day’s Inn Motel on the M6?
No, of course she wouldn’t. But I should also add that, before I met Stevie, I had actually given up on being in any kind of relationship at all. I’d started to wonder if I was emitting distinct dinner lady vibes, even when I was all dressed up for a night out. Perhaps, I’d begun to think, the whiff of school canteen macaroni cheese was emanating from my pores, and that was putting men off. For a while, I took to giving my freshly washed outfit a thorough sniff before any night out. Still no luck, until I met Stevie. I know I’m sounding pathetically grateful, finding myself a boyfriend with such obvious lady-pleasing qualities. But we do have fun, and it’s thrilling to think that, instead of making cups of tea for Mrs B tonight and then coming home to channel-hop on my own, I have hours of pleasure ahead. Okay, I’ll have to be up at the crack of dawn to make it home in time for work – pity, as checkout isn’t until eleven (I’m familiar with such details) – but at least we’ll grab some buffet breakfast. While Stevie’s sniffy about the dinner menu, he does enjoy piling his plate high with hash browns and cumberland sausages. Then we’ll be off: me back to my small, sleepy town just outside York, and Stevie to his next appointment somewhere in the Manchester area.
‘That was amazing,’ he murmurs, pulling me close. I glance at my phone, which is sitting beside my empty champagne glass: 10.17 p.m.
‘It really was.’ My stomach growls as I kiss his delicious-smelling neck.
‘You hungry, babe?’
‘Yes, I am a bit.’
He smiles, and plants a tender kiss on my forehead before swivelling out of bed. ‘No problem, I’ll nip out and get us something …’ I glance at his lean, taut body as he pulls on his jeans and shirt, wondering – as I always do – how I managed to get so lucky.
In his absence I stretch out in bed, enjoying the coolness of the sheets against my skin. From a laminated card on the bedside cabinet, I learn that the all-you-can-eat breakfast is just £5. I doze a little, then check my phone, to reassure myself that my darling son hasn’t plunged his finger into an electrical socket or exploded the TV. No texts, which could signify that he’s lying in a fried heap, although I know I’m being ridiculous. No contact from Morgan is completely normal – he tends to message me only when he needs to know where he might find money for late-night chips. And I can’t bring myself to text Jenna to ask if he’s okay; he’d be mortified.
My worries fade as the door opens, signifying that my hunter-gatherer has returned from the service station shop – open 24 hours, another benefit of conducting our sex life on the motorway – with a carrier bag of treats. ‘Hey,’ he chuckles, undressing swiftly and clambering back into bed, ‘imagine finding you here.’ I laugh as he tips out our provisions, which, I happen to notice, contains one of those Fuzzy Brush toothbrushes that come in a little plastic ball from a dispenser in the loos. ‘Forgot my toothbrush,’ he says with a grin.
‘Another great thing about service stations,’ I snigger, which he chooses to ignore. We kiss, and we eat, and then, fuelled by a couple of Ginsters Meat Feast Slices and a tub of Pringles, we fall back into each other’s arms.
It’s lovely, as always. But I still can’t shake off the feeling that this isn’t quite right.
Chapter Three (#ulink_e5eed526-2fb4-50fe-a8b3-ce75d3943144)
School Dinners (#ulink_e5eed526-2fb4-50fe-a8b3-ce75d3943144)
Thursday, 10.35 a.m, and I’ve just arrived home. The kitchen is littered with empty tuna tins – Morgan is prone to forking canned fish straight into his mouth, but has yet to master the art of depositing the tins in the bin – and an array of crumb-strewn plates. There’s a spillage of pink juice (apple and raspberry?) on the table, plus a scattering of shattered Twiglets, like the components of some primitive game. I pick one up and bite it. It lacks freshness. I stare at the mess, dithering over whether or not to lose my rag, and deciding that I can’t face a confrontation the minute I’m home.
Anyway, there’s no one to be annoyed at as the rare nocturnal mating pair has yet to appear. Of course: it’s not yet 11 a.m. As my darling boy is currently neither in employment nor further education – unless you count a weekend course in beginner’s circus skills, foolishly paid for by me, as he fancied ‘a go at street theatre’ – he has no real reason to get up. While Jenna is reputedly studying beauty therapy, the course seems to have an awful lot of leisure time built in. I find it hard to comprehend how two people can do so little with their time.
‘I’m off to work now,’ I call up from the hallway. ‘You might think about hoovering the stairs, Morgan? And get some shopping in, would you? We need bread, cheese, fruit … remember fruit? Does that sound familiar? Apples, pears, stuff like that. They grow on trees, reportedly good for you …’
An unintelligible response. At least I know he’s alive.
‘Or oranges? How about some of those? Full of vitamin C, darling, handy if you want to avoid rickets or scurvy …’ His bedroom door creaks open and he appears on the landing in his oversized stripy dressing gown. He looks pale – light-starved and faintly sweaty – yet is still handsome in his rather malnourished, hair-untroubled-by-comb sort of way.
‘What d’you say?’
I muster a brisk smile. ‘Fruit, darling. Get some, please. There’s money in the jar. Oh, and clear up all that mess you left. I don’t know who’re you’re expecting to do it for you. A team of magic elves?’
He peers at me, as if trying to process my incomprehensible request, then shuffles off back to his room.
‘Even some canned pineapple would do,’ I trill, a little manically, as I step out into the street.
My daytime job is at the local primary school. The brisk ten-minute walk is just long enough for me to shake off domestic irritations and slip into the cheery persona required for working in the canteen. Our home town is definitely a proper town, although Morgan would term it a village as he reckons nothing of any interest ever happens here. ‘What am I s’posed to do exactly?’ he moaned recently, when I complained about his lack of activity. ‘I’m dying in this place. It’s crushing my soul. Why did we ever leave York?’ That’s where he spent his first seven years until Vince, his father, and I broke up. It made sense then to move to the house my friend Kim had just inherited from her mum and offered to let to me at a ridiculously low rent. Although Morgan welcomed the move – and made friends here immediately – he now views it as unforgivable on my part.
School is an imposing Victorian red-brick building, with part of the playground given over to wooden troughs crammed with pansies and marigolds planted by the children. Although being a dinner lady didn’t exactly feature on my plans, I had to find something – a stopgap – to fit around looking after Morgan when we first moved here. I try not to dwell upon the fact that it’s been a very long time since his school hours have been a factor in my life.
In the kitchen, Amanda, the cook, is stirring an enormous pot of fragrant chicken curry. It’s the last day of term, and there’s a lightness in the air, a palpable sense of anticipation. ‘So what are you and Morgan up to this summer?’ she asks, briefly looking round from the stove.
‘Me and Morgan?’ I laugh. ‘Nothing. God, can you imagine him wanting to come away with me?’ I pause, then add, ‘I think me and Stevie might book a last-minute thing …’ Why did I even say that? We have never discussed going away for more than a night together, and certainly nowhere other than a motorway hotel.
I pull on my blue school apron and set out plastic cups and water jugs on the tables. My proper job title is an MSA, a Midday Supervisory Assistant. I don’t exactly look like your classic dinner lady – the stern auntie type with a perm – but then nor do my colleagues. Whippet-thin Amanda has a diamond nose stud and a bleach-blonde crop, while Delyth is all raucous laughter and glossy red lips, possibly the vampiest woman to ever grace a school canteen. However, she can be rather formidable when crossed; she takes no nonsense from the children. Me, I’m a bit of a pushover where kids are concerned – languid teenagers also, obviously.
‘You mean you’d leave your poor boy home alone?’ teases Delyth, who finds it endlessly amusing that I fuss over Morgan so much.
‘I’m sure he’d survive,’ I say with a grin.
‘Have you taught him to cook yet?’
I shrug. ‘Well, he can just about fry an egg without setting his hair on fire.’
‘God, Aud,’ Amanda remarks with a smirk, ‘you’ve treated that boy far too well. He doesn’t need to figure out stuff for himself. He’s never had to.’
Although I shrug this off, something gnaws at me: because that’s what Vince says too. He reckons I’ve pampered our boy, and that it’s my fault Morgan seems to think it’s fine to undertake nothing more taxing than wobbling about on his unicycle and half-heartedly tossing a couple of beanbags about. Can I add that Vince is the one who started it, by buying our boy a juggling kit last Christmas ‘for a laugh’. He was a bright, sparky kid until the teenage hormones kicked in: excellent at maths, science and history, forever huddled over a book. We’d watch movies and play board games together; it felt as if we were a little gang of two. I can no longer remember the last time he read anything – apart from the Chinese takeaway menu – and these days he seems allergic to my company.
But never mind that because the children are surging in now, the younger years first, jostling into a straggly line at the counter while Delyth and I dish out their meals. It’s an Indian banquet today, to celebrate breaking up for summer. The queue has already disintegrated into an unruly gaggle. There are shrieks and giggles and much pushing in. ‘Calm down, everyone,’ I exclaim, stopping Joseph from grabbing a handful of mini naans.
‘Please, Miss Pepper!’
‘No, Joseph, only one naan each.’
‘Miss, please, they’re only tiny—’
I glance at Delyth, expecting her to lay down the law. But no, she’s smirking while doling out curry and rice from the stainless steel containers. ‘Go on, let him have two,’ she hisses.
‘It’s a special day, Miss Pepper!’ giggles Holly, clutching her tray.
I frown, deciding it must be the fierce July heat that’s making the children so giddy today. Fleetingly, I wonder whether Morgan has managed to draw his bedroom curtains yet, and picture him staggering back, half-blinded by the sudden exposure to sunlight. Delyth and I finish serving the younger ones, and I deal with a small altercation between a bunch of girls at a table – ‘I’m saving a place for Shannon!’
‘You’re not allowed to save places, Lily, you know that …’
‘Please, Miss Pepper …’ And off they go again, dissolving into splutters of laughter.
Delyth and I serve the older years, who are no less hyped up than the little ones, then it’s on to wiping tables as the children begin to congregate at one end of the hall. Normally they’d have surged out to the playground by now. Today though, they’re sort of loitering. I’ve never seen this happen before. ‘Off you go,’ I prompt them. ‘Your lunchtime’s ticking away. Don’t you want to be outside in the sunshine?’
‘Not yet, Miss Pepper!’ someone blurts out. There’s a ripple of sniggered asides. I frown at Delyth, then catch the eye of Moira, the head teacher, who’s glided into the canteen, as regal as the figurehead on a ship with her magnificent bosom and glossy black hair piled high.
‘Everyone!’ she calls out, waving a large white envelope above her head. ‘Boys and girls, gather round and remember what we said at assembly this morning …’ Another burst of laughter. ‘… Now, all quieten down while I make a very important announcement …’
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to Delyth.
She shrugs. ‘No idea.’
‘Not leaving, is she?’
‘Maybe. I haven’t heard anything …’ She clears her throat and studies her fingernails. I glance around the crowded canteen. It feels as if the children, who are clearly having trouble containing their excitement, know exactly what’s going on. And it dawns on me, slowly, that everyone does – even Delyth, who’s clearly trying to suppress a grin – apart from me.
‘Shhhh!’ Moira hushes everyone as only a head teacher can. As the chatter fades, I realise the entire staff is here – teachers, secretaries and classroom assistants; even Greg, the janitor. Stranger still, everyone is staring at me. I sense my cheeks glowing hot and sweep my hands over my ponytailed hair.
Moira raps a table with a plastic teaspoon. The room has fallen silent. ‘Today,’ she starts, in her authoritative tone, ‘is a very special day. Yes, I know it’s the last day of term and you’re all desperate to get out of here and have fun. But before that, I have in my hand a very special letter …’
‘We know what it is!’ Joseph pipes up.
‘Joseph, you don’t know,’ Delyth reprimands him, waving a finger.
‘We do. We all guessed!’
Moira grins. ‘You might remember, a few months ago, I secretly asked you all to write a couple of sentences about one of our dinner ladies who’s been here for such a long time, and has seen so many of our children grow up through the school …’
Oh, my lord. Delyth only joined us last year, and Amanda’s only been here a couple of terms. She means me.
‘… Ten years, she’s been here,’ Moira goes on. ‘That’s even longer than me, which is saying something …’ Everyone laughs, and I think: yep, I arrived in the era of jam roly poly and now it’s all chopped mango and kiwi. And it hits me: I’m getting some kind of long service award, a carriage clock for the dusty old retainer of the school canteen. Which would be lovely, of course. I do need a properly working clock. But Christ, do I feel old …
‘… Always been so kind and wonderful,’ Moira goes on as my cheeks blaze. She turns to me. ‘I’d like to read out a few of the things the children said about you, Miss Pepper …’
I swallow hard as she pulls a sheet of A4 from the envelope. What the heck have they said? ‘“Miss Pepper is a lovely smiling lady …”’ It feels like something has caught in my throat. ‘“She’s my favourite dinner lady in the whole world,”’ Moira reads on. ‘“She’s always kind and she never gets cross, even when we spill water or drop food on the floor …”’
My vision fuzzes as I remember the bad thoughts I had yesterday, beaming hatred at Morgan’s boxers and kicking Jenna’s thong into the corner of the bathroom to fester with the dusty old bottles of floor cleaner and bleach. When did I become so intolerant? What happened to the fun, perky woman who blithely stepped over the odd dropped item of underwear, and who never seethed over a dressing gown dumped on the stairs, and who was certainly never seized by an urge to set it alight? They see only the good side of me here: the woman who runs off to find a plaster for a cut knee, and takes the time to chat to a little girl who’s crying because there was no room for her to sit with her friends.
Sure, I’m good with other people’s kids. I love their enthusiasm for life. If only they knew what a colossal grump I am at home, fizzling with irritation over scattered trainers and the forever elusive remote control … ‘“Miss Pepper is like a kind friend to me,”’ Moira continues, and there’s more, so much more: about the time I ‘helped’ Ailsa Cartwright (she means when I spotted a remarkably fat nit crawling in her hair and quietly whisked her to the office and called her mum without anyone else ever finding out). Now Moira is talking about some kind of prize I’ve been awarded, but I’m not paying full attention. Instead, I’m thinking, what would anyone have done, in that situation? Produced a loud hailer and boomed, ‘Back off, everyone, Ailsa’s crawling with lice?’
‘Our incredibly kind, hard-working, long-serving dinner lady,’ Moira booms across the hall. ‘So here’s to another ten years with the wonderful Miss Pepper, dinner lady of the year!’
‘What?’ I blurt out as the room fills with applause.
‘You’re dinner lady of the year!’ Delyth exclaims, throwing her arms around me. ‘What did you think this was about?’
I laugh, shaking my head in amazement. ‘I had no idea. I mean, I didn’t even know there was one …’
‘Well, there is,’ she laughs, ‘and you’re it.’
‘Bloody hell …’
