Read Online A Surrey State of Affairs by Ceri Radford - Free Book Online
Authors: Ceri Radford
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overnight, something he has tended to avoid since Sophie told him that by doing so he was responsible for submerging the Maldives. When I jiggled the mouse to get rid of the screensaver, a picture of a familiar-looking blond girl with a big grin and extravagant cleavage appeared on the screen. Upon closer inspection I realized that I was in fact on the Web site Facebook, registered somehow under Jeffrey’s name, and on some sort of fan page. I realized that the girl in question was that
Blue Peter
presenter latterly more famous for getting caught snorting cocaine with a rolled-up fifty note off the chest of a disheveled rock musician. The fan page contained a display “wall” of comments from admirers, including “shez so hot I used to watch her on telly she could cover me in stiky bak plastic any day” and “nice t * * s.” With a small stab in my heart I noticed that Jeffrey had simply written “phwoooooaaar!” Well, when I say Jeffrey, I suppose I mean Jeffrey’s Internet manifestation, which consists of his real name and an accompanying picture of Roger Moore dressed as 007. He is clearly living out his fantasy on the Internet. I just feel so hurt that this fantasy includes a perky postadolescent TV presenter who is my polar opposite in looks and dress sense. If he is going to salivate over another woman, the least he could have done is to choose a nice cultured type. What’s wrong with Mariella Frostrup, for goodness sake? Or Nigella Lawson?
Natalia was cleaning in the study when I made my discovery. I gasped, so she came over to investigate. When she saw the page, she got quite upset too. The girl obviously feels for me: perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on her.
Now that I’ve calmed down, I have a dilemma to contemplate. I’m not sure whether to simply shut the images of that smile and that cleavage out of my mind and pretend that nothing happened, or have it out with Jeffrey, or set myself up on Facebook and “cyberstalk” him. In any case, I shall not post Rupert’s dating profile for the time being. I do not believe in omens, of course, but you will agree that the timing is not auspicious.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26
Today I took a long hard look in the mirror, which is something I’ve tended to avoid doing since the age of thirty-six. I took a deep breath. I stared at my reflection; my reflection stared back. The eyes are still acceptable, green, wide-set, with the almond shape that Jeffrey used to admire. It is around, above, and below the eyes that matters deteriorate somewhat. There are crow’s feet. There is a small crease between my eyebrows. There are lines connecting my nose to either side of my mouth that no rejuvenating night cream has been able to erase. Moving downward, my décolletage has the texture of an overripe peach. Why were there no warnings about sunscreen in the Provence villas of the 1970s? Farther south, my figure is rather good for my age, a size 12 that can be upholstered into something approaching svelteness with the appropriate underwear. All in all, the effect is much like my favorite armchair: an elegant silhouette, but frayed around the edges. I can’t help but feel that this is how it should be for a woman of my age and experience. It is the spectacle of “mature” women like Madonna cavorting about in gym shorts that is abnormal, not a little natural decline. I do not wish to get my skin hoiked up so I resemble a startled cat, or Botox my forehead into bongo drum tautness, or wear a leotard. And yet, just every now and then, I would like to make Jeffrey say “phwoar.”
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he see the young girl he married, slight, smooth-cheeked, or does he see the slack-jawed old woman waiting to get out? Does he even see me at all?
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27
Bell ringing provided a welcome distraction from my musings last night. I think many women would be happier if they turned to a rousing communal activity rather than
Blue Peter
presenter latterly more famous for getting caught snorting cocaine with a rolled-up fifty note off the chest of a disheveled rock musician. The fan page contained a display “wall” of comments from admirers, including “shez so hot I used to watch her on telly she could cover me in stiky bak plastic any day” and “nice t * * s.” With a small stab in my heart I noticed that Jeffrey had simply written “phwoooooaaar!” Well, when I say Jeffrey, I suppose I mean Jeffrey’s Internet manifestation, which consists of his real name and an accompanying picture of Roger Moore dressed as 007. He is clearly living out his fantasy on the Internet. I just feel so hurt that this fantasy includes a perky postadolescent TV presenter who is my polar opposite in looks and dress sense. If he is going to salivate over another woman, the least he could have done is to choose a nice cultured type. What’s wrong with Mariella Frostrup, for goodness sake? Or Nigella Lawson?
Natalia was cleaning in the study when I made my discovery. I gasped, so she came over to investigate. When she saw the page, she got quite upset too. The girl obviously feels for me: perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on her.
Now that I’ve calmed down, I have a dilemma to contemplate. I’m not sure whether to simply shut the images of that smile and that cleavage out of my mind and pretend that nothing happened, or have it out with Jeffrey, or set myself up on Facebook and “cyberstalk” him. In any case, I shall not post Rupert’s dating profile for the time being. I do not believe in omens, of course, but you will agree that the timing is not auspicious.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26
Today I took a long hard look in the mirror, which is something I’ve tended to avoid doing since the age of thirty-six. I took a deep breath. I stared at my reflection; my reflection stared back. The eyes are still acceptable, green, wide-set, with the almond shape that Jeffrey used to admire. It is around, above, and below the eyes that matters deteriorate somewhat. There are crow’s feet. There is a small crease between my eyebrows. There are lines connecting my nose to either side of my mouth that no rejuvenating night cream has been able to erase. Moving downward, my décolletage has the texture of an overripe peach. Why were there no warnings about sunscreen in the Provence villas of the 1970s? Farther south, my figure is rather good for my age, a size 12 that can be upholstered into something approaching svelteness with the appropriate underwear. All in all, the effect is much like my favorite armchair: an elegant silhouette, but frayed around the edges. I can’t help but feel that this is how it should be for a woman of my age and experience. It is the spectacle of “mature” women like Madonna cavorting about in gym shorts that is abnormal, not a little natural decline. I do not wish to get my skin hoiked up so I resemble a startled cat, or Botox my forehead into bongo drum tautness, or wear a leotard. And yet, just every now and then, I would like to make Jeffrey say “phwoar.”
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he see the young girl he married, slight, smooth-cheeked, or does he see the slack-jawed old woman waiting to get out? Does he even see me at all?
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27
Bell ringing provided a welcome distraction from my musings last night. I think many women would be happier if they turned to a rousing communal activity rather than
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