Five Ladies Go Skiing Read online

  ‘I have things to do and you need a shower,’ she said, freeing herself from his embrace.

  ‘All the trouble you go to so that you can ski and see your friends and you can’t spare me half an hour of your time.’

  Kim sighed, blinking hard, then peering up at him, she said, ‘Go, shower and I’ll be up in five. God, why don’t men have a menopause and lose their drive? You owe me.’

  Will smiled and gave her a squeeze. ‘Aw, come on, I don’t make that many demands.’

  Kim tightened her lips, staring at his hand. ‘I know, but …’ She paused. ‘Never mind, no you don’t,’ she said softly, when what she really wanted to say was: Be warned. I’m going to be notching up enough credit so that you honour my desires, my yearning to move back to England. But it would have no effect. Will had made his view very clear, so it would only create an argument.

  ‘Besides, you’re not going to see me for nearly two weeks.’ He headed for the hall stairs. ‘I’ll be washed and waiting.’

  Switching off the iron, Kim rubbed her forehead. She would never stop loving her husband, but she found herself immensely irritated with his reluctance to discuss their future. The last time she approached him about it, they rowed and didn’t speak for days, and since then she’d lost the courage to broach the subject, allowing the issue to fester inside her for fear of upsetting him.

  At times her life was an island, floating in a vast and desolate sea. Yes, Will was her dream husband, but he could be stubborn as a mule. Not that she would have noticed it as a young nurse. She was blinded to his faults and blown away when the handsome Dr Will Anderson flirted with her. She’d almost exploded when he had asked her to be his plus-one at the Hospital Christmas Dinner. And, as a partner, he had always been so loving and strong, even through the dark days of their fertility problems. It was that love that kept them strong throughout the long IVF treatments and the longing for a family.

  Naturally, there was tension – lots of it at times – but letters to and from her friends had kept her spirits up so she and Will had got through it. And, eventually, the twins had made them complete. Now that the twins had flown the nest and Will was more and more absorbed in his work, she found herself pining. Her only deep friendship since moving to Oz in her mid-twenties was a previous neighbour, Marnie, who nowadays was blessed enough to spend much of her time with her seven grandchildren.

  Kim climbed the stairs, aware that Will had probably had his shower. She didn’t find intimacy so easy since the menopause had scared off her libido, but Will was very understanding. He did make an effort to get her in the mood first with his caresses. And the acupuncture she’d had helped. If only he comprehended her other needs as readily. Something to distract her from pining. She lifted her chin as she entered the bedroom, seeing Will towelling his lean body after his shower. Again, she would try her best to push her thoughts to the back of her mind.

  Cathy

  As efficient as always, Cathy Golding had completed her list of morning chores as well as the last of her packing and sat in her book-bulging study to switch on her laptop. She checked her watch: 8.29. She picked up a brazil nut from a small dish and nibbled on it, well on her way to consuming one half of her daily dose of protein and selenium. Outside the window, the grey winter sky and depleted front garden motivated her to get writing to reach the end of her story. She opened the document entitled ‘Sally’s New Bike’, the summer story she was submitting to a woman’s magazine. After enduring more than thirty years teaching English Literature and Language to girls at the local secondary school, albeit with much commendation and personal satisfaction, Cathy was finally living her dream.

  She craned her neck to check she had closed the door. There was only Anthony, her husband, in the house, but he managed to disrupt her more in a morning than a class of thirty twelve-year-olds ever had in a whole day. As it was Christmas Eve, she needed to finish the story ready for posting before her ski trip to Switzerland on Boxing Day with her closest friends.

  Reading the last two paragraphs, Cathy then read the notes underneath and began typing. Each day, before closing a document, she had formed the habit of adding a few brief sentences so that she could instantly pick up the thread next time. And, she found it was always good to note her ideas down, even if a better idea came along later – which they often did. She tapped swiftly on her keyboard, only pausing here and there for thought, but no sooner was she in the zone than she heard the familiar drum of Anthony’s slippers on the floorboards outside, then the clack of the handle on the study door. Anthony was never subtle.

  His voice boomed, jolting her from the zone. ‘Would you like tea?’

  Cathy took a deep breath and turned her head. ‘Yes, but please, darling, I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you. Just bring it, and quietly. If I don’t want it, I’ll leave it.’

  ‘Yes, sorry again.’ Anthony clenched his jaw. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It was going fine. I want to finish, edit and post by lunchtime. I’m cooking the gammon and sausage rolls this afternoon and your last two meals for freezing so I want to get this off.’

  Anthony rubbed his thighs sheepishly. ‘Right. Anything I can do?’

  ‘All done, I believe.’

  ‘Need any last-minute bits for your trip?’

  ‘No, darling, but thank you for asking.’

  ‘I might meet Terry and the guys in the pub later. What do you think?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘It will be good for you to see the boys,’ she said patiently as he padded out the door. ‘And, just tea, love, please.’ She returned to her keyboard gripping her knuckles, wondering why she felt she had to treat her husband like a child these days. He knew she craved peace and quiet to write. In fact, meeting friends for a Christmas drink would do him good. His friends hadn’t yet retired like Anthony had, but it would help him when they did. The last year or so he was like a lost puppy, moping around and interrupting her, trying to please her. Not the wildly energetic man she married at all. Where was her confident Anthony?

  Growing up in an emotionally repressed household, she had basked in all the attention that Anthony used to lavish on her. Unlike her parents, he listened, gave her his undivided attention and allowed her to speak her mind. She didn’t have to eat the meat on her plate and behave like the perfect daughter to avoid embarrassing him like she did her famous father. Anthony was proud of her whoever she was and never let her think otherwise. Anthony adored the fact that she was well read. He was always proud of the fact that she could meet his demanding clients at functions and events and talk to them on any level. The devotion and energy he had for her, and his clients, was a rare gift and had very likely contributed to making his talent agency extremely successful.

  Cathy had been teaching a few months when she met and fell in love with Anthony and it was at a time when her confidence was sagging with her pupils, struggling to get to grips with exerting authority over rebellious teenagers. His support was tremendous. As luck would have it, he was working with a client who was a speech and confidence coach, so it was fortuitous that he was able to relay some tricks. With trial, error and persistence, and a belief in herself, along with her passion for books, she soon delighted in sharing her love of literature and the English language with her pupils. Kids grew to love her lessons and respect grew among her peers and superiors. She threw her soul into her career, her writing ambitions quashed. Even thoughts of having her own family: quashed. But retirement meant she was freed. She could write her stories down.

  Ginny and Lou, her closest friends from childhood, had loved hearing her stories. They used to gather in the little summerhouse her father had built, and their encouragement spurred her on to write more. Many were still stored in the attic. And although she didn’t get around to writing a great deal whilst teaching, she had continued to read like a girl obsessed whilst remaining close to her friends.

  She still giggled to herself when she thought about skiing. She wasn’t sporty o
r outdoorsy at all like Ginny, Lou, Angie and Kim, but was strangely looking forward to the challenge, especially after the effort it had taken to prepare physically. And, crucially, she couldn’t wait to spend time with her old friends, particularly Ginny who was still down after losing Mike and the job she loved. Ginny had spent far too much time hiding herself away this last year. Cathy hoped this trip would show her just how much they all loved and cared for her and that their encouragement would help her turn the next corner. Though, naturally, she would take some books and her Kindle for the quieter times or – she shuddered – in case she broke a leg.

  Her door rattled again, only gentler. Anthony edged in slowly, carrying a china cup and saucer, and smiling. ‘Here you are, beautiful. You’ll miss my cuppas when you’re away.’

  ‘I will.’ Cathy smiled up at his glistening brown eyes. He was still her sweet husband and she did love him dearly, but at times he was a pain. ‘Thank you, darling. I don’t think tea will be readily available in the mountains.’

  ‘Exactamundo! But I could pop some teabags in your case.’

  ‘Yes, good idea. Thank you, darling.’

  ‘Anything else before I watch Jeremy Kyle?’

  ‘I’m fine, honest,’ Cathy said. She jumped up suddenly and moved over to the bookcase. ‘Actually, I came across that sudoku book you were looking for if you’ve done the crossword.’

  Anthony reached out and took the book from her hand. ‘Ah, thanks, love. I might do some after Jeremy.’

  Cathy sat down, resting her elbows on her desk with her head in her hand. She listened to the door close. ‘Right – focus,’ she told herself. ‘Roll on Boxing Day and Switzerland.’

  Angie

  Scratching the upper right side of her torso, Angie Ricci raced from her car to her front door. As she opened the door, despite it being the middle of winter, aromas of summer soared up her nose: garlic and lemon infused with fresh herbs. She poked her head into her spacious shiny kitchen and her husband Robbie peered up from the chopping board where evenly sliced juicy tomatoes lay. A grin lit his cheeks.

  She pursed her lips and kissed the air. ‘Hi, sweet, this is a nice surprise. Smells delish! I’m just going to run upstairs and take off this bra. It’s been driving me mad all day.’

  ‘No rush,’ Robbie said waving the knife before resuming his task. ‘I’ll pour you a glass of wine.’

  ‘OK, I’ll jump in the shower then.’

  Angie dashed up the stairs to her newly fitted bedroom which, with its floor-to-ceiling mirror wardrobes along one wall, reflected twinkling orbs from the other side of the river in the distance. Closer, a light shining from Ginny’s home, just down the valley, brought a smile to Angie’s face. Not long now and she and her beautiful friends would all be together.

  Stripping off an oversized navy fleece, she slipped three edamame beans into her mouth that slid from her pocket onto the bed. They reminded her to pack some of her supply for the journey and the trip. They were difficult to get in the smaller shops even though veggie food was more freely available. Munching, she stripped off her pale blue T-shirt and threw it on the bed too, before removing the offending undergarment. She inspected it before stepping closer to the mirror and raising her arms. Instantly she scowled at the red rash-like swelling on her smooth light brown skin.

  ‘Nasty bra,’ she mouthed, reaching for a bottle of moisturising cream on a chest of drawers and pressing the top to release the liquid balm. ‘I hope you’re not going to aggravate me when I’m skiing,’ she moaned to the sore on her torso. As she massaged the cream in, relief surged, soothing her. Had she been at her own health centre on any normal day, she would have had the opportunity to change, but promoting on a stand in a bustling local shopping mall all day on Christmas Eve, alone, it had been impossible. Wiping it so that all the cream disappeared, Angie then removed her leggings, trainers and socks and seeing a long, lean reflection, posed with a pout.

  ‘Looking hot, babe,’ she praised, admiring the recent changes. Her body was the best it had ever been, with a sleek tone and definition she had always envied in younger women.

  ‘If only I could notch off twenty years of real time,’ she told her reflection. Not that she hadn’t always kept herself fit. Since joining the WRENs at eighteen she had trained as a PT instructor. It was the one thing that gave her the identity she craved, being a biracial child in the Fifties. Later, as the UK became more multicultural, she grew proud of her heritage. Unlike her mother, who never felt London had embraced her. Her dear, now departed mother had sailed from Barbados to train as a nurse and met her father at a stall on Greenwich market where he was selling ladies’ fashion.

  Her father had also passed. She recalled his claim that he was instantly struck by her mother’s exotic beauty and didn’t care that his neighbours gossiped or crossed the road to avoid them. He was happy, and prejudice had never entered his brain. Angie relished the colour of her skin now and appreciated the fact that its texture remained taut, even on her face, and had aged without too many creases or wrinkles. Many a time compliments had been forthcoming that she could be thirty-something, despite now being sixty-two, a little older than her besties.

  After a quick shower, and another soaking of moisturiser, she towel-dried her thick black curls and slipped on one of the oversized shirts that she left undone at her breasts, before she returned downstairs to the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, reaching up to Robbie on tiptoe and pecking him on the lips. ‘That bra was grinding under my arms all day. I think I’ll just pack my sports bras for skiing.’ She perched on one of the stalls at the central island where Robbie had prepared the salad, rubbing her hands together and inhaling the Mediterranean fragrance.

  ‘Haven’t you packed yet?’ Robbie asked turning to her as he reached in the fridge for the salad dressing he’d prepared.

  Angie splayed out her hands in wonder. ‘When have I had time to pack?’ she asked, spotting a small bottle of nail varnish submerged among satsumas and Granny Smiths.

  Rob shook his head from side to side. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re going to pack when everyone’s here tomorrow. Danny and Matt will probably tolerate it, but you know Jonty will moan.

  ‘Of course not. I’ll do it later. After dinner,’ Angie stated. She unscrewed the nail varnish top. ‘I’ve started piling it, ready.’

  ‘You really need to start delegating. You can’t do it all.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Rob,’ she said, brushing a thin layer of the ruby-red lacquer on to her thumbnail. ‘There’s nobody at the centre who knows about promoting or marketing. Any more than me anyway.’

  Rob flicked his greying thick fringe from his forehead. ‘Get a professional in then. Surely it will pay for itself. The rate you’re going, you’ll run yourself into the ground.’

  He made it sound so simple, but marketing personnel were so expensive. Only in the last few years had the business been turning a good profit and she was squirrelling that extra money away in the hope of buying a little bolthole somewhere warm – a winter hideaway she and Robbie could escape to if ever they had free time.

  She watched as Rob tossed sweet potato wedges over on the hot oven tray. ‘Anyway, don’t lecture me about delegation or managing my time or myself. I manage to work and keep myself in tip-top condition – you’ve surely no reason to complain. I could certainly give some of those young actresses you watch a run for their money. Anyway, I waited for you last night. Did you watch another film? Horny as a rig worker I was.’

  Angie had always been conscious that men would look elsewhere for gratification; after all, she knew only too well what her father got up to when he took ladies to try on dresses in his van when he worked the markets.

  ‘I fell asleep, I’m sorry. I still need a shower and a shave actually. I was late for work and I’ve been busy.’

  Angie sighed. ‘Yes, I can see that. So why are you cooking? I could have popped into M&S or John Lewis for a meal deal.’

  Ro
b shrugged and even blushed slightly. ‘I suppose guilt and the fact that you’ve been on my mind this afternoon as I wrapped your Christmas presents. I left the office a bit earlier to collect one, popped into the Horse and Groom of course, but got back to wrap them before you got home.’

  ‘Ooh, something mega sexy I hope. Yours is.’ Angie’s black locks bounced with excitement as she imagined a seductive silk negligee coupled with the latest, most wonderful sex toy on the market. Robbie knew how much she liked to try new gadgets. Their sexual connection had been major from the off. He was the first man she had ever met who knew how to please her, as well as being warm and funny.

  Ginny and the girls had never really grasped her insatiable appetite for sex, but it had always been a huge part of her and Rob’s relationship. Even after the menopause, Angie persuaded her GP to keep her on HRT just in case her libido faltered. Lately, though, she had found Rob a little forgetful and complaining of being tired; maybe it was his age – he was sixty-four in a month. But he hadn’t forgotten her Christmas present. Hopefully things were looking up. ‘Eek, I’m so excited. Can’t wait until tomorrow. In fact, if we’re still waiting for the food to cook, we could fit in a quickie.’

  Placing the sweet potatoes back into the oven, Rob swiped his neck with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t know where you get your energy from, sweetheart, but I’m bushed.’

  ‘Nonsense. You just want me to seduce you, don’t you?’ she said and, wasting no time, screwed the nail varnish top back on and leapt swiftly from the stool. She sidled up to him and pulled him close, sweeping one arm around his neck and reaching for his crotch with her other hand. ‘You are sex on legs, Rob Ricci, and what if we don’t get another opportunity before I go away?’