All good things come to those who wait . . . God she hoped so.
‘Am I paying you two to stand and chat?’ Carlo called through the doors, his tone jovial but with something sincere in his words. He was always a little antsy when they were fully booked, a bit like pre-show nerves.
‘I can’t remember the last time you paid me anything!’ Gianna shouted, wanting to make Daisy laugh, she suspected.
‘Feeling a bit better, Daisy?’ he asked with a look of concern.
‘Much,’ she lied.
‘Good, good.’ He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Because it’s going to be one helluva night!’
CHAPTER TWO
WINNIE KELLEWAY
Winnie Kelleway sat perched on the velvet stool in front of the triptych of gilt-edged mirrors and pulled up her chin, running her hand over the crepe of her neck, rubbing in where she had dotted the thick moisturising cream that she hoped might help keep the years at bay. And actually, she liked what she saw. There was none of this negative self-hate she knew dogged some women; if anything she was the opposite, brimming with satisfaction. Sure, her hair was greying, although a monthly visit to her hairdresser put paid to that. And to the woman on TV who had said that a face lift was the best gift anyone in their fifties could give themself, well, Winnie certainly owed her a drink! Everyone said she looked twenty years younger.
‘Oh, stop it, you!’ She’d bat away their words, while joy at the compliment pinged in her veins. Aware of their flattery, she knew it was more like ten, but hey, she’d take it!
Dressing impeccably had always been important to her and this standard was as vital as ever now her seventies lurked on the horizon. Only this afternoon she’d spent the best part of half an hour deciding which wrap to place about her shoulders this evening – the sage, the mocha, the plum. All colours that worked with her dress, but which complemented her skin and jewellery the best? The dusky rose linen, drop-waisted frock with bias cut hem hung on the front of the wardrobe; she’d pair it with her tan sandals and lots of chunky beaded jewellery – pieces she’d picked up over the years on their excursions overseas. Her whole ensemble looked like she hadn’t bothered at all, as if she’d just plunged her hand into the wardrobe and flung on whatever her fingers grazed, but in fact her clothes for all events were planned days, if not weeks, in advance.
Winnie Kelleway was a woman who liked a plan.
It was nearly time to leave for the restaurant. Having earlier taken two of the roses from her glorious bouquet and placed them in a crystal bud vase, they now sat reflected in the glass, adding a small fragranced scent to her dressing area. The sight of them made her smile. Yes, she was one lucky, lucky lady.
It wasn’t without a certain smugness that she had woken on this the morning of her anniversary. It felt a lot like winning when she thought about the countless couples – acquaintances, neighbours, and friends – whose marriages had disintegrated. There were some she knew whose thinly disguised hatred lubricated their vowels when addressing their spouse. To live like that was, she believed, enforced misery of the worst order. For others, divorce had clearly felt like the best option, even if it was a decision made in haste. Those same friends now lived in a state of barely hidden resentment, quietly seething at the fact that, unlike them, she didn’t have to forgo every other Christmas with her children and grandchildren or worry about cold feet in her twilight years, not with Bernie’s plump calves to rest her soles on as sleep beckoned.
She was proud of their longevity, their history; proud of her close-knit family, all living within walking distance, and wanted everyone to see it, acknowledge it. This, she figured, somehow made them even stronger – if everyone could see their happiness . . .
The secret to her long and happy marriage had been using her smarts, her cunning. Sex had always been on tap for her husband, whenever, wherever. She fed his sexual appetite, knowing that when it came to asking for more cash, a holiday, an addition to the house, she only had to bat her lashes or unbutton the top button of her blouse and he’d agree to almost anything. It seemed simple to her. A trade, if you like. She didn’t have to enjoy it as much as he did, although she often did, didn’t even have to pay heed to the grunts, groans, thrusts, and meandering hands that got him so riled. No, instead, she could plan supper, remind herself to water her seedlings, even dissect the news stories of the day, as long as outwardly she gave the occasional murmur or offered a word of encouragement.
He, of course, believed she was as lost to the raptures of physical connection as he. It was a neat trick and one that meant she and Bernie lived happily. How could they not? Her husband enjoyed the benefits of a gorgeous house, supper on the table, a willing wife and all the material comforts that came with the success of their business. Winnie was confident in the knowledge that she was definitely ‘steak at home’.
Four decades married! How was that even possible? Time seemed to be going faster. Forty years . . . and she wouldn’t have traded a single one of them. Checking her phone, she did the mental maths, wondering what the time might be in Portland, Oregon and whether her sister Patricia would be awake yet. Yep, plenty of time for her to have texted or called with her words of congratulations. Jealousy was, she thought, a most unbecoming trait. In truth, she pitied her sister a little.
Winnie was both cursed and blessed with an extraordinary memory. Her sibling’s sneer when Winnie had announced one Sunday evening over tea that she and Bernard were engaged had stuck with her. As did the accompanying words of derision.
‘Bernie Kelleway? Good Lord, Win, he’s not got two brass farthings to rub together.’
‘And who are we, the Rockefellers?’ she had cut in.
‘No, but we are pretty and that’s currency,’ Pattie had reasoned. ‘He’s got a very big nose and rumour has it was born the wrong side of the sheets, if you get my meaning. That’s what everyone at church always says.’
‘Well’ – she had splayed her fingers and marvelled at the narrow gold band with no more than a chip of a diamond on it – ‘I reckon people should worry less about rumours and more about what goes on in their own backyard, especially if they are the good, churchgoing type.’
That had shut her sister up.
With her hairbrush now raised, she smiled at the sparkling 2.4 carat rock that had long since replaced that little diamond chip. She wondered where that had got to. It had been years since she’d seen it.
‘Oh, Pattie . . .’ She shook her head. Try as she might not to dwell on it, it rankled that she hadn’t made contact. Her only sister who, in her early forties, had given up sweater sets and the stability of her job as a senior librarian and set off on her great life adventure – or mid-life crisis, depending on your viewpoint. Pattie, who one day announced she wanted to be a ‘better citizen of the planet’, if you can believe such a thing. And who currently resided in the wilds of Oregon with her latest beau, running an organic vegan food truck in the evenings. What did that even mean? Winnie could only picture lentils, dirty fingernails and cabbage. And with this night-time employment, she wondered how Pattie spent her days. No doubt running barefoot over the forest floor with her long, grey hair flowing.
‘Urgh.’ Just the thought of such a life among all that tofu, pan-pipe music and nature made her skin crawl. She’d take a decently disinfected surface, Nespresso machine and a good air-con unit any day of the week.