Humbugs and Heartstrings by Catherine Ferguson

Author:Catherine Ferguson [Ferguson, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2014-08-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saturday night is normally ‘treat night.’

I’ll get back from my walk to the big supermarket on the outskirts of town, unload my backpack and cook myself something special – moussaka, maybe, or pasta with prawns in a lemony sauce. Then I’ll curl up with a book or a DVD.

I’m not a big fan of Saturday night on the box, especially in autumn.

As soon as boots arrive in the shops and there’s a frosty nip in the air, the nation is encouraged to gather round their screens, warm their toes by a crackling fire and snuggle up to watch ‘Let It All Out TV’. Big shows where ‘ordinary’ people brave everything, even walking away from their job on the checkout, for a chance at stardom.

‘I don’t ever want to go back to my old life,’ they say, staring fervently at the camera, oozing vulnerability from every pore.

All that desperation makes me queasy. Why put yourself through all that hope and agony for something that, in all probability, is never going to happen?

Mum loves it, of course. Every single, soggy second. She will devour any newspaper story she can find about in-show rivalries and the murky pasts of the contestants.

Generally, I like my Saturday night routine. It helps to define my week.

Tonight, though, my heart isn’t in it.

I feel restless and distracted. I stand so long staring out at the constellations in the clear night sky beyond the kitchen window that the pasta sauce burns away to nothing.

I tell myself it’s no wonder I can’t settle when there’s still so much to do for the Christmas Fayre, only a week away now.

For some reason, the wine Charlie chose for Carol has lodged in my head.

He said it was a business dinner. He seemed quite keen to emphasise that. But I think he was just feeling sorry for me, alone on a Saturday night while he had better things to do.

I picture him producing the wine and Carol apologising, saying she only ever drinks white. And Charlie, doing the manly thing, expertly removing the cork from one of her bottles of sauvignon blanc. Holding the glass out to her and proposing a toast.

What will their toast be?

To the business?

To you?

To us?

Thinking about that makes me queasy.

I need displacement activity! And fast!

I grab my purse and run down to the nearest off-licence.

It’s a posh one, this. They take the grape very seriously indeed. Beneath each pricey bottle, a neat label delivers a witty tribute to the wine’s unique personality.

What, I muse, would Carol’s label say?

Good body, long legs, tart on the palette with excessive volatility?

And me? I suppose I’m more; fuller bodied with a shorter finish.

I can’t see Charlie’s cabernet sauvignon so I choose something that looks similar but is a good deal cheaper.

When I get back, I pour myself a large glass and stand by the window again, staring out at the stars. They really are astonishingly bright tonight. I’m a bit hazy when it comes to constellations, but I think that could possibly be The Great Bear over there.

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