Sunday Girl Read online

  Sunday Girl

  by Ella Craig

  Copyright © 2019 Ella Craig

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Neslihan Yardimli, BookCoverZone

  ISBN 9781794664876 (paperback)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The one that didn’t get away

  Contents

  waiting for an alibi

  girls talk

  tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree

  ma, he’s making eyes at me

  great balls of fire

  words of love

  road to nowhere

  all i have to do is dream

  accidents will happen

  so good to be back home again

  breaking up is hard to do

  you’ll always find me in the kitchen at parties

  do you want to know a secret

  tears on my pillow

  you never can tell (aka teenage wedding)

  cry me a river

  you’ve got a friend

  have yourself a merry little christmas

  january

  fool (if you think it’s over)

  kissing with confidence

  my funny valentine

  god bless the child

  waiting in vain

  why do fools fall in love

  it might as well rain until september

  i will survive

  don’t fence me in

  About the author

  Somewhere in Plymouth, England

  Sometime in the 1980s

  waiting for an alibi

  The telephone rang with a shrill insistence.

  ‘Shall I, shan’t I, shall I, shan’t I, shall I answer the phone?’ Kathryn Beck sang to herself. She sat at the foot of the stairs, her head in her hands and her heart in her mouth.

  It had to be him. He promised to ring at eleven this morning, and now it was six in the evening. Fantastic, another Sunday down the pan, thanks to Mr Infidelity himself.

  ‘Stop making that noise,’ she hissed at the telephone and stuck her fingers in her ears. I should ignore it and make him sweat, she thought, but growled and leaned forward to pick up the phone.

  It stopped. She howled and sat panting with rage and frustration.

  The phone started again, she sent a grateful prayer heavenwards and tried to control her breathing.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in her best carefree yet seductive voice.

  ‘Hi, Kath, it’s me, Jenny. You took your time answering. Having a dump were we?’

  Disappointment hit Kath with the force of a speeding train. ‘No, I was in the bath, and I don’t dump, I defecate.’

  ‘Either way, you’re usually full of crap.’ Jenny did not sound as if she had spent the day waiting for her lover to call. ‘Get dried, dressed and come out to play. My new beau and his merry band have a gig on tonight.’

  ‘What new beau?’ The dullness Kath felt was in direct contrast to Jenny’s in-your-face exuberance.

  ‘Is there a hole in your head as well as your arse? I told you about Jim on Friday, or were you too drunk to remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes, an evening of wine and pizza when certain men remembered your telephone number.’

  ‘We are talking about me and my man, not you and your time-share boyfriend.’

  ‘Sorry. Is this your sociologist with the horny body?’

  ‘This is a man who can crack walnuts between his buttocks.’

  ‘I suppose that will come in handy at Christmas, but I hope he wipes properly.’ Kath giggled despite herself. ‘What other social graces does he possess?’

  ‘He opens jam-jars with his thighs, and I guarantee damp drawers every time you look at him.’

  ‘I’ll wear my incontinence pants,’ Kath assured her. ‘Tonight: where, when and who?’

  ‘Be in the China House by nine with no one you know, except Dave and Julie. Cheers, big ears, see you later.’

  There was a distant clunk as the receiver dropped into the cradle. Jenny, Kath mused, never stayed long on the telephone. For her, it was a tool to arrange dates and not to exchange gossip. Kath was often on the phone for hours, being far too polite to ring off.

  Decision time, stay in alone and unloved, or go out with a bunch of complete strangers, apart from Jenny’s brother, Dave and his dippy wife, Julie. She could have a cosy chat with them about DIY and ironing, followed by a session of playing gooseberry to Jenny and her socially aware Adonis. That sounded like heaven compared to the alternative of a fun-packed night in waiting for the phone to ring.

  ‘But what if he calls whilst I’m out?’

  She chewed her thumbnail in agitation then sighed and stomped along the narrow hall to the toilet where she collapsed with a thud on the loo. Might as well put some knickers on, she thought and pulled the chain with a vicious jerk. She climbed the steep stairway to her attic bedroom, muttering under her breath. Off came the expensive and (she hoped) seductive silk dress; too chilly for October. Mind you; this place promised to be too chilly for silk in the height of summer. No wonder Uncle George didn’t charge her much in the way of rent. The heating bills were going to be enormous.

  Kath rummaged through cardboard boxes and overstuffed bin-bags, looking for something to wear. Three weeks since leaving home and still no sign of a wardrobe, or a dresser, but at least she had a bed. She must ask her father to help her obtain the furniture George promised from his second-hand shop beneath her flat. Not that she held out much hope because her uncle would pay as much attention to his brother as he did to her.

  How did you come from the same gene pool, but turn out so different? She had an older sister who took after dad and a younger brother so like mum it was scary. Leaving Kath to follow a throwback with a sideways slant to take after "I’ll do it later" George. She glared at the clothes strewn across the floor and dragged out a pair of jeans and a rugby shirt. An outfit far more suited to her rounded figure than an ersatz attempt at a sophisticated cocktail gown.

  She slumped on the stool in front of her dressing table. Grey eyes in a grey face looked back at her. Kath wiped the dust from the mirror’s surface with her sleeve, but it made no difference. The only colour came from the motley collection of rags writhing around her head. She took them out leaving tight, springy ringlets tumbling over her shoulders. Great, from poker-straight hair to a fake bubble perm; this was not a good look.

  Kath frowned then set to work with comb and hairspray and spent ten minutes teasing and backcombing her hair into a frothing mass of curls. She studied her reflection in the mirror and held a lock of hair up against the pictures on the colourant boxes. What happened to the caramel and cherry highlights? Her hair was the same uninspiring shade of milk chocolate as before, but she had the right look. Like one of those adverts where a tousle-headed woman simulates oral sex with crumbly bars of chocolate. Kath licked her lips lasciviously, poked out her tongue and blew a loud raspberry.

  What was the point? The perfect pre-Raphaelite hairdo was not enough of a consolation prize. Here she was the epitome of feminine allure, and the rotten pig hadn’t rung. Her preparations had been for nothing, the steak marinating in cooking sherry, a bottle of Asti chilling in the fridge and the Black Forest gateau defrosting in the sink. Not a sophisticated meal, but her budget didn’t stretch t
o champagne and caviar, besides a corned beef sandwich can be romantic in the right circumstances.

  Kath’s stomach grumbled with either lust, hunger or boredom; she did not know or care. What a waste of a day. She should have gone to her mum’s, eaten a roast dinner, and spent the afternoon watching telly with Dad and Billy. Instead, she spent the day flitting between sexual anticipation and frustration, because her married lover let her down, again.

  ‘Stop it, you mopey, old bat. Go and get something to eat.’ Kath took her own advice and went down to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh dear, fridge empty, cupboards empty, stomach empty, and grumbling,’ Kath mumbled as she searched for food. ‘Why Mother Hubbard the cupboard is bare, apart from steak.’

  She fished a piece out of the marinade and beat it into submission with a mallet. Each thump took the edge off her anger. She put the meat under the grill, grabbed a generous slice of cake and wandered through to the lounge. Another reason to speak to George, an army blanket and bedspread hanging from the lintel does not a door make. However, it made an interesting decorative feature and one far more pleasant than the flat’s constant smell of mushrooms.

  Kath turned the TV on, and the quick bout of channel hopping did nothing to cheer her up. There was a choice of God, a discussion on the rising cost of groceries and, bizarrely, American Football. She switched the radio on hoping the Top 40 would offer more entertainment than this lot, although there could be a danger of references to sex, extra-marital or otherwise.

  The DJ rattled through the countdown reaching an orgasmic climax at Britain’s No.1. The best-selling single in the UK was a right old dirge of a song, a power ballad with some woman warbling on about her undying love for her man. Kath gazed out of the window into the murky evening gloom. Even the weather conspired against her. She couldn’t see to the end of the road; it had disappeared, swallowed up by the mizzling rain. Kath began to slide into the self-pitying depression only a lonely Sunday can induce. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm mocked her with its dismal bleating.

  Car alarm! It was her smoke detector making that awful racket. She ran to the kitchen and into a wall of smoke, which poured out from the grill. Cursing, she flung open the window and flapped a tea towel under the alarm. It crashed to the floor and was trampled underfoot as she cleared the room of smoke. Kath stared in dismay at the steak, and then scraped the worst of the burnt bits off before turning it, so the raw underside got its place in the sun. She sat at the table, eyes streaming, and pulled shards of plastic off her socks. Time for a little housework, Kath crawled around the floor with a dustpan and brush. She considered getting bladdered on the Asti, but bubbly wine didn’t suit her current mood.

  She sat back on her heels, trying to tuck her wayward hair behind her ears. It was like folding over-starched sheets. Kath cast a yearning eye at the fridge and shook her head; it’s no fun drinking by yourself. She dumped the remains of the smoke detector in the bin and put the kettle on to make a pot of tea. Black coffee was more melancholic, but she was out of coffee. And milk. She settled for black tea with the last of the sugar. A fanfare of spits and hisses drew her attention back to the steak. She yanked it out from under the grill and, burning her fingers, wrapped it in kitchen paper. The first hot mouthful ended up in the sink on top of the gateau. Kath scowled.

  What a prat, and not just about the wretched steak, here she was having an affair with a married man, a married man of forty-five. Could she be so desperate for a man she broke one of the rules of sisterhood: Thou shalt not poach.

  The love of her life married, with children, three of them to be precise. Poor boyfriend choice was nothing new; her one school romance had ended in disaster. She only went out with Adrian Price because having a man appeared to be the key to social success. The memory of their parting haunted her still.

  After that experience, she refused to go out with a bloke for the sake of it and joined the school science club instead. A move which led to a career, not a job, but a career with prospects and several years of day-release studies. She didn’t have the time or inclination to settle down, until she noticed friends appearing in public with steadies, betrothed and spouses. Saturday nights were no longer the hedonistic binges they used to be. Her social life had degenerated into a disastrous series of blind dates: you’ll like Dave’s friend, he’s a lovely guy, honest! Or feeling like a spare prick at a wedding amongst the happy couples now surrounding her.

  Her few boyfriends showed a tendency to become too serious too soon, or was that too dull? Kath always preferred the chase to the actual catch until she hooked a wriggling eel who never rang when he said he would. Was that part of the attraction? She finished the steak with an unsatisfied belch and wiped her hands down her trousers. She took a sip of tea and swallowed it with a grimace; it was vile. Kath tipped it down the sink and sat at the kitchen table and dragged her college bag out from under it, the contents more important than any man.

  Next May, she had her finals for a BSc honours degree in applied chemical sciences. A pass would lead to a fat pay rise and promotion to Research and Development Chemist. New horizons, new responsibilities and no more of the crappy jobs no one else fancied doing. A little light-headed at this impending glory, she grabbed her folder and began working on one of the assignments she had neglected, due to someone else’s erring husband. Five minutes later, the telephone rang.

  This time it has to be him. Please? She swallowed a build-up of saliva, picked up the receiver and squeaked hello.

  ‘Hi, Kathy,’ said a deep, sexy male voice.

  Crikey, it is him! Her heart pounded, and various erogenous zones zipped into overdrive.

  ‘Hello, Tony,’ Kath chirped in her best what-a-lovely-surprise-I-wasn’t-expecting-a-call voice.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring earlier, but Jackie was ill. So, I took the kids over to visit their gran and Ted invited me down the pub, and I couldn’t refuse my father-in-law! Then June asked me to stay for tea. She wouldn’t take no for an answer; you know how it is.’ A rehearsed speech followed by apologetic laughter.

  ‘I know exactly how it is!’ Kath was not in the mood for feeble excuses from a man who spent the day pretending to be the perfect son-in-law. ‘I waited in all day for the sodding phone to ring.’ She winced at the way she was handling this but couldn’t stop herself. ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you to call me from your father-in-law’s precious pub? Or tell mummy-in-law Sunday is your day for fishing, and shagging? When you can remember who I am.’

  ‘Listen, Kathy, we knew there would be times like this, but I’ve got my wife and my kids to think of. I love you... ’

  (Do you?)

  ‘...but I can’t risk Jackie finding out until we are both sure.’

  ‘But you could have found time to ring me. A quick call to tell me you weren’t coming.’ Oh, nuts, I’m whining now, Kath thought but carried on, regardless. ‘I bet you didn’t once think of me all knobbing day.’

  ‘Stop it, Kathy. You sound like my wife, and I don’t like it when you swear.’

  ‘I’m sorry Tony, but I missed you so much.’ She spoke in a little-girl-lost voice. Why did this man never fail to turn her into a brain-dead Barbie doll? If I were a dog, the rational part of Kath decided, I would be a soppy spaniel with a hint of lolloping Labrador. ‘You haven’t seen me since last Thursday, and I had everything planned the way you like it.’

  ‘I wanted to be with you today, but I can’t afford to let Jackie become suspicious; not at this stage.’

  ‘I understand, but I want to see you. Soon. Please?’ Kath begged through clenched teeth.

  ‘Listen, I’ll tell her I have to work late on Tuesday night. I’ll pick you up at seven, and we’ll go out for a meal or something. That suit you, Kitten?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I can survive till then.’

  ‘Good girl. I’d better go; I’m on my way to collect a takeaway curry for Jackie. Bye Katkins, I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

  ‘G’bye Tony.’ />
  Bugger, Bugger, BUGGER! So much for being cool and aloof. Why did she bother answering the phone? She should have told him she’d been out this afternoon. And as for Tuesday, sorry darling, but I am busy. I have a date with a man who doesn’t come with a ready-made family, wife included.

  ‘I am such a silly cow around this man.’ Kath chewed her nails. ‘Why can’t I fall for a nice, single bloke?’

  There was no obvious answer to her question. She sat on the floor by the phone in a brooding silence. Life could be such a bastard at times. She returned to the kitchen where her college work stared at her, but her enthusiasm had gone. Now what? She found herself drawn to the fridge where the bottle of Asti waited. It was more than a tempting prospect although the plastic cork popped out with the verve of a wet fart. Kath fished her mug out of the sink and filled it with a healthy dollop of frothing wine. By the third mug, she was relaxed and mellow. She looked at her watch, half past eight. Stuff Tony, sod college and balls to the Colonel.

  ‘Don’t wait up, mother,’ she called to the empty flat, ‘but I’m off out to get right royally wrecked.’

  girls talk

  Kath squinted across the gloomy bar; the lights were dim, with the people packed ten deep. She spotted Jenny squashed between the jukebox and the cigarette machine. Kath braced her elbows and barged her way through.

  ‘You’re alive!’ exclaimed Jenny. ‘Were we a little unwell yesterday morning?’

  ‘Rough as rats,’ grunted Kath.

  ‘Thought as much,’ Jenny grinned at her. ‘I rang you at work, and your snotty receptionist informed me you had a migraine. Alcohol-induced, no doubt. I didn’t bother calling you at your hovel of a flat. I guessed you didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  Kath nodded a rueful smile on her face. ‘I felt awful yesterday, and I don’t feel much better today.’ She pointed to a pint of pale green liquid on the table. ‘Is that mine?’

  ‘Yes, I got you a lime and soda. I didn’t think you would be able to handle anything stronger.’