The Ex-Wives by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page B

somebody, and look at the mess inside! Divorce did that; surely it was a better idea to keep the lid on? Women were always prodding around inside him, tut-tutting like workmen, shaking their heads sorrowfully, sucking through their teeth and occasionally bursting into hysterical giggles. What was so bloody funny?
    That was how he was feeling towards women in general, towards life itself, when he stopped outside the chemist’s. He was, of course, a regular and valued customer at this shop. The same with Victoria Wine, opposite. He sometimes wondered what might happen if he ever moved away; how either establishment could possibly carry on.
    He went in;
ping.
A blast of warm air caressed his face; perfume filled his nostrils. He paused on the threshold. A mysterious sense of well-being flooded through him.
    Did it? Did it already? Even before he saw her? Yes!
    Or was he just a corny old romantic, a silly old fool?
    He felt it – warmth, happiness. He crossed the shop, past the racks of flowery spongebags and the cards of sparkling hairclips. Mr Singh, the pharmacist, didn’t seem to be around, and the usual assistant was busy with a customer.
    â€˜It has its own tingle scrub,’ she was saying, ‘to tighten the pores.’
    Then he heard a voice. ‘Can I help you?’
    He turned. A young woman got to her feet. She had been kneeling on the floor, stocking some shelves, that was why he hadn’t seen her.
    â€˜Hello!’ His voice sounded ridiculously hearty. He felt himself blushing. At his age! ‘You’re new,’ he said stupidly, just for something to say.
    She nodded. She was enchanting. Utterly, entirely enchanting. Slender, shy, beautiful; halo’ed, somehow, in innocence. She wore the usual pink overalls; above it her face was delicate and translucent. Limpid brown eyes, pointed chin, achingly stem-like neck. My God! She was like a sapling, a silver birch. She was like a single daffodil, surrounded by coarse plastic blooms. How on earth was he going to ask her for a packet of suppositories?
    â€˜Er, is Mr Singh around?’
    She shook her head. ‘He’s just popped out to the post office.’
    How could he discuss his piles with this radiant creature? If only it were the other assistant, the big motherly one, but she was still busy. It was the old French letters syndrome: why, when one wanted to buy something embarrassing, was one faced with the prettiest salesgirl? If only he could ask for something impressive – special pills, say, to curb his incredibly powerful sexual drive.
    â€˜Anusol Suppositories, please,’ he said. ‘Oh, what a bag of infirmities is man!’
    â€˜Anusol? What’s it for?’
    â€˜Haemorrhoids. Humiliating, I know.’
    â€˜It’s all right, I won’t tell anybody.’ She smiled at him. ‘Where are they?’
    He paused. ‘Er. The usual place.’
    â€˜No – I mean do you know where they’re kept? The suppositories?’
    â€˜Ah. Up there.’ He pointed to the cabinet behind her. She reached up. Her sleeve fell back, exposing a slim bare arm and a shadowy armpit.
    â€˜I’m going to the cinema tonight’ he said, suddenly reckless, ‘and it’s agony sitting down.’
Come with me. Come out tonight. Like all ruins, I look best by moonlight
.
    â€˜What’s on?’
    â€˜About six different films. Have you noticed howlovely, big things like cinemas have been divided into little cupboards, yet lovely little cupboards, like grocery shops, have been made into enormous big Waitroses? All the wrong way round, in my opinion. Still, you’re too young to remember.’
    â€˜We only had a tiny cinema anyway, where I come from.’
    â€˜Where’s that?’
    â€˜Melton Mowbray. Me and pork pies.’ She fetched down a packet. ‘Twelve or twenty-four?’
    â€˜Twenty-four. And I need some Algipan and some Multivite . . .’ He fished in