The Men in her Life by Imogen Parker Read Free Book Online Page A

from the shadows by the harbour wall, not quite knowing what to do next. She wanted someone to hug and celebrate with. It should have been Joss. Their marriage had spanned almost exactly the years of Tory rule and now it was over. But even at this most significant moment, Joss was not available for her. For a moment she felt almost unbearably lonely, then she took a deep breath and walked up the stone steps towards Mr Chan’s.
    ‘Could I just have some egg-fried rice? And a Diet Coke?’
    Tending the barbecue had made her very thirsty. She sat down on one of the hard chairs to wait for her order, drinking from the can. On the television, the great and the good were arriving at the Festival Hall for the Labour victory party. The reporter was interviewing Richard Branson. Clare stared at the screen, not really seeing or hearing anything. The reporter began to wind up and the camera panned the crowd. The screen suddenly leapt sharply into focus as Clare noticed a youngish woman with a cloud of red hair tap the man in front of her on the shoulder. The man spun round, his face glowering with impatience, but when he saw who the woman was the hug he gave her was so Powerful, it lifted her off her feet. They kissed each other on the cheek and walked into the building arm in arm.
    ‘That’s Jack Palmer and a companion just arriving,’ the reporter said, ‘and now back to the studio...’
    ‘One rice,’ said Mr Chan, ‘you OK?’ he added, seeing the expression on Clare’s face.
    ‘Yes,’ Clare said, collecting herself, ‘... I just saw my... someone I... I used to know...’
    ‘You from London ?’ Mr Chan asked uncharacteristically warmly.
    ‘Well, yes, a long time ago,’ Clare smiled at him.
    ‘Me too,’ he said, shoving a paper bag of prawn crackers into her carrier as a kind of acknowledgement of their shared origins.
    Clare thanked him and walked along the front munching the crackers, feeling stupid for ordering the rice which hung heavy in its warm foil container. She wasn’t hungry, she just felt it was rude to watch his television without buying something, but the Coke would have been enough. She could have gone home to watch television, but she didn’t think it was fair to accept Ella’s invitation to babysit and then return hours before expected. Clare leant against the railings overlooking the beach. Most of the crowd had moved into the disco tent.
    The thing that most annoyed her about Joss’s infidelity, now that she had become numb to the pain, was the way it made people regard her. If she went into the tent now and he was dancing with someone, everyone would feel embarrassed on her behalf. If he wasn’t there, it would look as if she was looking for him, and if she decided to dance with someone else, it would look as if she was trying to compete. Stranded between good manners and pride, Clare let one solitary tear drop, then brushed it away. It would be even worse if someone saw her crying.

    ‘Do you think I’m the kind of mother who makes jam?’ Clare asked the next morning, wiping her fingers on a tea towel.
    On the kitchen table there were two dozen miniature jars with tiny linen covers tied with string. Unable to sleep, she had come down at five, after she heard Ella’s boyfriend leave the house, and begun cooking while she listened to the last election results on the radio.
    Ella laughed, her eyes bright and sparkling as if she had just woken up from twelve hours’ sleep, not three.
    ‘You do make very good jam,’ she said, ‘but no, I don’t think of you like that, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘Thank heavens for that!’ Clare said, smiling at her daughter, ‘Philippa had a thing about mothers who made jam. It was the ultimate put-down to be the kind of woman who made jam... I’m not sure why...’ she tied the last knot and stood back to assess her work, ‘what do you think?’
    ‘I’m wondering about the string... I thought you usually did them with gingham.’
    ‘Not