to stop feeling guilty about it.’
Virginia thought of a fridge magnet she’d seen: ‘my mother is a travel agent for guilt trips.’ She’d laughed heartily at the idea because it had been a fair description of her own mother.
Therefore, Virginia had been determined never to lay guilt trips on her three boys. Even in the darkest days after Bill’s death, she’d refused to let herself beg for their help. Laurence had stayed with her for a week but then she’d sent him back to his apartment in Swords.
‘I’m the mother and you’re the child,’ she’d told him firmly. ‘It’s not your job to mind me. I’ve got to get on with it myself.’
By the same token, Dominic and Sally deserved to spend Christmas any way they liked without worrying about her. Besides, she felt even more wretched than ever when the kids were tiptoeing around her. The joy of having them to stay was overwhelmed with the sense that Bill should be there too, which was just too painful.
At least when she was on her own she could deal with her grief on the bad days. If that meant spending the entire day crying with her face as red and raw as beetroot, then she was free to do just that. When there were other people around, pride made her stifle the tears.
Virginia changed the subject. ‘I’ve just come back from a long walk and I’m looking forward to having a hot bath and curling up with my new book.’ This wasn’t entirely true. Virginia hoped that a hot bath would ease her aches but she couldn’t cope with reading any more. Her favourite novels just made her cry at their memories of happier times. She managed the newspaper and that was it. Even the crossword reminded her of Bill asking for help with eight across.
‘It’s great that you’re walking again,’ said Sally. ‘Is your hip bothering you much?’
‘Not at all,’ lied Virginia. ‘There are some very pretty walks around here. The village is lovely. You’ll have to come and stay. In the summer,’ she added rapidly, in case she sounded all needy again.
‘We can come…’ Sally began.
‘Sally love, I need this time alone,’ Virginia interrupted. ‘I really do. Please make Dominic see that, you know I can’t tell him myself.’
‘I know. He only wants to help,’ Sally said quietly. ‘We all do.’
Virginia shrugged. ‘Nobody can help me but myself.’
Nicole Turner looked as if she was working – for once. Her dark head was bent over her desk and there was no tell-tale grin on her impish face which would have been a sure sign that she was telling jokes with her next-door neighbour, the equally feckless Sharon Wilson.
From her position at the top of the room, Ms Sinclair, claims department supervisor, narrowed her eyes as she looked at the bane of her life. Nicole Turner could look demure and hardworking even when she was secretly planning some prank that would cause uproar in the busiest department of the London headquarters of Copperplate Insurance. Like that time she’d rigged the big clock behind Ms Sinclair’s desk so it was half an hour early, meaning that everyone left for lunch at half twelve instead of one.
Naturally, Nicole had switched the clock back during lunchtime, so that when everyone arrived back at two, they’d actually had an hour and a half for lunch. In Ms Sinclair’s eyes, this was a sacking offence but she had no proof that Nicole was responsible so nothing could be done. And the section head pointed out that Nicole’s work was always excellent, so there were no grounds for firing her.
You had to watch her all the time, Ms Sinclair decided darkly. It was a task she relished.
At her desk at the back of the room, Sharon Wilson’s phone rang and she picked it up.
‘Hello, claims department,’ she trilled.
‘Is that old bitch still watching me like a hawk?’ asked Nicole, who was less than three feet away but who knew that clerical staff talking without actually being attached to their phones were in for a big black mark from Ms Sinclair.
Sharon peeked up the room. ‘Yes. Actually, she’s really staring at you now.’
‘Shit.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Sharon could see Nicole stand up and search through some files on her desk, her brow furrowed as if she’d been asked a sticky question by a customer and needed to check it out. Nicole located the big Copperplate Insurance manual and sighed theatrically as though her greatest wish in the entire world had been granted because she’d found the manual. She flicked through the pages and stopped in the middle.
‘Ms Wilson,’ she said now in her best placate-the-customer voice, ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to cover your claim for the deer running out onto the road and flattening your Mini Cooper…’
Sharon giggled and had to hide behind her computer so nobody could see her.
‘You see, Ms Wilson, we happen to know that you were down the Three Crowns public house on the night in question and had seventeen pints of best bitter, before you climbed into the driver’s seat and drove home, with your boyfriend in the seat behind you attempting to remove your brassiere; a feat not recommended in the Rules of the Road handbook. Therefore, we feel unable to cough up the twenty-seven thousand pounds you feel entitled to. We will be, however, paying for plastic surgery for the deer, alright?’
Sharon giggled some more.
‘Seriously.’ Nicole had switched into her normal voice although to any onlooker, her expression was as grave as if she was on company business. ‘I’ve just got an e-mail from my pal Bacardi King. One of his friends is getting married and the stag party’s in the Red Parrot tonight and if you’re interested, we can go.’
‘To a stag party on a Thursday?’ said Sharon dubiously.
Nicole allowed herself to smile. ‘Ms Sin-Free-Zone-Clair isn’t in tomorrow so we can be as hungover as skunks and nobody will mind. And all Bacardi’s female friends are going. Having men only at stags is very old fashioned.’
‘OK,’ said Sharon, who adored Nicole and who felt that in the three years she’d worked with her, her own social life had improved no end. Nicole hung up and returned to her e-mail.
‘Hi B-King, love to hit Red Parrot with u. Is dressing up part of plan? Haven’t dressed up since I went to hallowe’en night party as a mummy – all rolled up in loo roll taken from the last pub. The bouncers in the night-club didn’t see the funny side of it, for some reason. Said I could be charged with robbing loo paper! No sense of humour. See u at 8.
Nicole.
Thursdays were perfect for going out. Her gran came over on a Thursday, so Nicole didn’t have to worry about who was going to be babysitting five-year-old Pammy.
At six o’clock on the nail, Nicole got up from her desk, dragged her backpack from underneath it and stalked off to the loos on her gravity-defying knee-high boots, regardless of the fierce glares from Ms Sinclair.
Sharon watched her friend enviously. Nicole just didn’t
