Ghosts in the Morning - By Will Thurmann Page 0,24
service. That was precisely why I had driven around until I had found it. I needed the type of garage that didn’t ask too many questions. I had told the mechanic that my husband had dented the bumper when he had been moving our car. ‘To let a neighbour out of his driveway. The problem is that my husband had had a few glasses of wine, and though he didn’t actually drive anywhere, well, you know...well, we can’t really claim on the insurance if you see what I mean, I’m sure they’d ask why we didn’t report it at the time.’ The mechanic had nodded, didn’t seem fazed by my story, had given a conspiratorial wink that made him look even uglier than he already was, and then asked if it would be a cash job.
I had decided to get the bumper of the car fixed. It was the article in the newspaper about the cyclist, it had worried me a little, it seemed that somebody may have spotted the car. I was sure they didn’t have the number plate – they couldn’t have, the police would surely have been in touch by now – but it paid to be careful.
‘Right, I’ll be back at about five o’clock then,’ I said, but the mechanic ignored me, had already turned his back, leaving me staring at the wall. A calendar was pinned up there, lopsided, glossy nymphs thrusting their breasts forward, their lips pursed in a mock-sexual pout, seemingly desperate to be ogled by thousands of tradesmen. I didn’t like to think of myself as a complete prude, but I didn’t understand the point, and these girls always looked so young...
I headed for the bus stop, then changed my mind. It was an unseasonably mild day, the sun casting a balmy glow, so I decided to walk. It would give me time to think, to plan the menu for the dinner party that I was being forced to host. The sun was low, its winter rays had no real power, and there was a light, chilled breeze, yet I had walked only a short way before I felt a light film of sweat over my body. I chided myself, feeling an angry frustration at my unfit condition. I had been such a slim teenager, a slender waist, and ribs you could see, but the rigours of bearing three children, the feared onset of middle-age, together with a total lack of exercise for a good few years had changed all that. I could feel the rolls of fat wobbling on my stomach, and my thighs scraping together with each step.
What could I cook? Something simple, easy to prepare, but something that gave the appearance of hours of delicate preparation. Graham had suggested that I cook Chateaubriand steak, but I always found that to be an awkward dinner party choice. People always liked their steak cooked differently – well-done, medium, rare, medium to well – and it just became a pain, too much fuss. Graham liked his steak very rare – blue – and if we were in company he would always made the same stupid joke; ‘blue, please - just wipe its arse and put it on the plate.’ He would follow this with a silly chuckle and sometimes it took all I had to stop me from sticking my fork in his eye.
No, sod Graham, I wasn’t cooking steak. Maybe I’d do some fish – sea bass, perhaps, that was easy to cook, and it was easy to make it appear exotic with a few of the right herbs and a dash of lemon juice.
Chapter 7
We all stood in the lounge, clutching champagne flutes, smiling politely and generally looking awkward. Piers, Graham’s boss, cleared his throat, about to speak, but he was beaten to it by David, one of the audit partners from London.
‘It’s a lovely house you have here, Graham, very nice indeed, I do like the way you’ve utilised the space. I recall reading once that the placement of mirrors is very important when you’re trying to give the illusion of a larger room.’ I saw Graham smile through gritted teeth, at the rude slight. ‘I’m sure I right in assuming your good wife is responsible for the interior decor? After all, women are usually much better at that sort of thing, aren’t they?’ boomed David. He had a very loud voice.
‘Yes, yes, they are, hah hah,’ Graham said, adding a forced chuckle. He glanced at me and wobbled